Something Wonderful
by rahleeyah
Summary: AU. After a scandal forces him into early retirement, former detective Harry Pearce settles down to lick his wounds in a sleepy village by the sea. Can his charming neighbor help him learn to smile again? H/R. Rating will eventually be upgraded to M.
1. Chapter 1

"I'm sorry, Harry," Towers said, and Harry had to struggle to repress a sigh. If he never heard the words _I'm sorry Harry_ ever again, it would be too soon. Everyone seemed to be apologizing to him lately, which was odd, considering he was the one who'd killed a civilian and ruined his own career, with absolutely no assistance from any of this sudden bevy of apologetic well-wishers. He kept his mouth shut, however, and tried to assume an expression of, if not gratitude, at least mild appreciation. "If I had things my way," Towers continued, "we'd be pinning a medal on your chest instead of putting you out to pasture, as it were."

 _That's a lovely image,_ Harry thought wryly.

"I appreciate that, sir," he said instead.

"Where will you go?" Towers asked, leaning back in his chair, his vast paunch rising above the desk like a beaching whale.

Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably. "My father left me a small cottage in Suffolk, on the coast. I'm afraid I haven't looked after it like I should, and the place is in need of some repair. I suppose I'll start there, and once I've got the cottage fixed up, I'll decide what to do next."

"I have to admit, Harry, I'm feeling a bit envious," Towers said in a good-natured tone of voice that nonetheless made Harry grind his teeth in frustration. _Envious_? Of course, who wouldn't be envious; he'd killed a man, ignited a media firestorm, been forced into early retirement, and now he was running off to Suffolk with his tail between his legs before the mob showed up at his doorstep with pitchforks and torches. Life was just a dream for Harry, at the moment.

"Well," Towers said, rising to his feet with a groan that signaled the meeting was at its end, "I hope to see you again sometime, Harry." The Superintendent extended his hand, and Harry took it. They shook briefly, neither quite willing to look the other in the eye. What more was there to say? Harry's time in London was done, and the brass were ready to be rid of him. Might as well beat a hasty retreat, and hope everyone forgot his name.

He gave Towers a final nod, turned on his heel, and left the precinct for the last time. He felt the eyes of his fellow officers on him as he went, but no one said a word to him, and thus in silence he departed.

* * *

Harry woke just as the sun was rising, the same way he always did. Of course, there was no need for an early start now; he was a free man, utterly unfettered, able to spend every minute of every day doing exactly as he pleased. His pension was not insignificant, and neither was the sum he'd received when he sold his house in London. He already owned the Suffolk cottage outright, and all together he was in a position to do quite well for himself, to spend the rest of his life as a man of leisure.

He absolutely hated it.

On this, his first morning in the cottage, he found himself going through the motions of his usual routine. He rose and made the bed, tucking in the corners neatly like the soldier he had been; he showered and shaved, and then dressed in his trousers and a crisp, freshly ironed white shirt. He was just knotting his favorite navy tie when it occurred to him that he absolutely nowhere to go.

With a sigh that was equal parts relief and despair he set about removing the tie, stowing it away in a drawer before releasing the first two buttons of his shirt and rolling back his sleeves.

What to do now?

The house really was in quite a state; when he arrived yesterday afternoon Harry had been embarrassed to see the evidence of his neglect. The front door, which had once been a bright, cheery green, was now faded and peeling. The gate in the little white fence that surrounded the front garden was hanging at an awkward angle on its hinges, and several of the fence boards were warped and broken. A thick layer of dust coated everything in sight, a few of the shutters were missing, one window was broken, and the back garden didn't resemble a garden so much as it did an Amazonian jungle.

His first order of business had been the window. He boarded it up with some supplies he found in the shed after wading through the detritus of the back garden. Next he'd taken stock of the furniture; most of what remained in the house was broken, rotted, or just too old to be of any use. His own things were in storage at the moment; he wanted to get the cottage cleaned up before moving anything in. The bed in the upstairs room had been sufficient, and so he'd dropped his one suitcase in there, and spent several tedious hours making that space, if not clean, at least livable. By the time that was finished, however, the sun had gone down, and he realized he hadn't touched the kitchen. Not trusting any of the appliances on hand, including the ancient kettle, Harry had then walked into the village, and eaten a quiet, lonely supper at the pub before returning to his dusty, desolate cottage.

Today was a new day, so Harry squared his shoulders and headed down the stairs, making a list of all the things he needed to do in his head as he went. The inside of the house would be the first order of business; he needed to hire some removal men, to cart off the furniture, and then the whole place needed scrubbing, top to bottom. What little cleaning supplies he'd brought with him had been used up in yesterday's attack on the bedroom, and so it seemed another trip to the village was in order.

Breakfast first though, he decided, staring glumly around the grimy kitchen. Hadn't he seen a nice little café yesterday, on his way to the pub? A cup of tea and a bit of bacon would be most welcome.

 _That's good,_ he thought, pleased that he'd come up with a plan. Breakfast, then to the shops for supplies, then back here to tackle the kitchen.

Thus satisfied with his arrangements, Harry made his way out the door, stopping for a moment to lock it behind him out of sheer force of habit, rather than any real need. The cottage had been unlocked when he arrived, but he had found no evidence of intruders inside. Apparently, this little village was much safer than his London neighborhood. Once a copper, always a copper, though.

He made his way down the front walk, sighing in a self-deprecating way when he encountered the broken gate again.

It was a beautiful summer day, as warm as it ever got in this part of the world, the sun shining and the sky for once a clear, cheerful blue. From somewhere off behind him he could hear the distant crash of the waves against the cliffs. He supposed that if one had to be forced to leave one's entire life behind, there were worse places than Suffolk to seek refuge.

"Oh, bugger it!" he heard a woman exclaim exasperatedly from somewhere across the lane. He walked over to investigate, shading his eyes with a hand, searching for the source of the shout, and found himself quite suddenly confronted by one rather shapely bum, sticking out of the hedge in front of the cottage just opposite his own.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, chiding himself for staring at said bum.

"Oh damn!" the woman cried, scrambling out of the hedge and furiously wiping the leaves from her skirt, blushing.

She made a quite sight, the mystery woman in the hedge. Though she had succeeded in dispensing with most of the foliage on her skirt, Harry couldn't help but notice that there was mud on the fabric around her knees and an errant leaf stuck in her soft brown hair. She had luminous grey eyes and a warm, open sort of face that he instantly liked. All in all she was quite pretty, if a bit flustered.

"All right?" he asked her again; she was just staring at him with a slightly bewildered expression on her face, as if she couldn't quite fathom where he had come from or what he was doing there. At his question she sighed and ran her fingers through her hair; in the process she discovered the leaf and threw it away, swearing under her breath and blushing that little bit more. Harry Pearce was not the sort of man who referred to women as "adorable", but he felt he might need to make an exception, in this case.

"It's just my cat," the woman explained, dropping her gaze from his face to the toes of her scuffed black leather boots in a bashful sort of way. "He's run off again. I don't usually let him out, because he kills the birds."

"Cats will do that," Harry said, immediately kicking himself for how patronizing it sounded.

She jerked her eyes back up to his face, and there was something indignant about her expression that seemed quite out of place, given the circumstances.

"I planted those shrubs," she raised one hand and pointed off toward her garden, on the other side of the hedge, "specifically for the birds. What sort of person would I be if I lured them here with flowers only to set my cat loose on them?" She was huffing a bit, and Harry felt overcome by the need to redeem himself. All thoughts of breakfast and housework were forgotten as he got down to the very serious business of improving her impression of him.

"Why don't I help you look for him?" Harry asked. He would have offered anyway, even if she hadn't been a very pretty woman; spending a few more minutes in her company was just an added bonus.

He could tell from her face that she wanted to say no, so he decided to take matters into his own hands, and approached the hedge.

"What's his name? The cat, I mean," he added inanely. _Well done, Harry,_ he thought.

"Fidget," she answered immediately, with a tone that seemed to indicate that she both knew just how ridiculous it sounded, and at the same time seemed to dare him to say something about it. He prudently declined the challenge, and instead focused his attention on the hedge, bending over to inspect it more closely. He thought he caught a glimpse of a long grey tail swishing away from him, heading for the shrubs she'd pointed out to him a moment before.

"I think he's going towards those shrubs," Harry told her; he couldn't quite bring himself to say the name "Fidget" aloud.

"Oh no," she groaned, twisting her hands together. Harry contemplated the hedge; now that he was up close to it he could see it wasn't as solid as it had originally appeared. Perhaps he could just sort of barrel his way through it? It seemed the quickest way to get to the renegade feline, and if possible he wanted to prevent any sort of bird-related atrocities.

"Right then," he said, and with that he set off into the hedge.

With no small amount of swearing and more than a few cuts and scrapes he emerged out the other side, more or less physically intact, though the state of his dignity was debatable. His neighbor was watching him with one hand covering her mouth, and he wasn't sure if it was amusement or concern he saw in her shining grey eyes.

The cat had made an appearance, however, stalking round one of the shrubs, his yellow eyes focused with laser-like intensity on a swallow and his tail swishing dangerously.

 _Now or never, Pearce,_ Harry told himself.

Moving as quietly as he could Harry approached the wayward animal, bent slightly at the waist with his hands out in front of him. The cat, a common grey tom with a chunk missing from his left ear, spared him a single disdainful glance before returning his attention to the bird, having apparently decided that Harry posed no threat to him.

Just as the cat shifted his weight forward, clearly ready to pounce, Harry took a deep breath and lunged for him.

This was perhaps not the wisest course of action.

His feet flew out from under him in the damp grass and he slid forward, startling both bird and cat in equal measure. The bird took wing, the cat yowled, and from somewhere behind him he heard the woman shout, "Be careful!"

 _Bit late for that,_ he thought ruefully. His ankle twinged something awful and he didn't even want to think about the state of his shirt and trousers. He lay on his stomach in the grass, leg bent at a funny angle and his head partially under the lowest branches of the shrub. _I think I'll just stay here for a while_ , he thought.

After a moment, though, Harry felt something warm and soft rub up against his side, and he rallied, turning quickly to snatch up the cat, which he managed successfully on the first try. Fidget didn't seem to mind; he was purring and nuzzling his face against Harry's neck quite contentedly. Harry tried to sit up, but then his head encountered the shrub again and he collapsed back against the grass with a groan.

The gentle swishing sound of the woman's skirt alerted him to her approach and so, trying valiantly to pretend that he hadn't just made an absolute arse of himself, he wriggled around until he was clear of the shrub and could sit up unencumbered, cat in hand.

"Oh, Fidget!" the woman cried delightedly, scooping him out of Harry's arms and cuddling the little animal close.

Harry tried not to grumble as he pulled himself onto his feet, placing his weight gingerly on his ankle. It didn't appear to be broken, just a bit bruised. His ego was in a similar condition.

The woman was smiling at him, and suddenly all his little aches and pains were forgotten. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, and her eyes sparkled at him charmingly.

"Thank you," she said.

"Think nothing of it," Harry replied, brushing bits of grass and dirt from his trousers absently.

With the retrieval of the cat he no longer had any excuse to be standing here in her garden, but he found he did not want to leave. It was a beautiful day, and a beautiful woman was smiling at him, and this was perhaps the closest to happy that Harry Pearce had been in years.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," she said.

"Harry Pearce," he answered, extending his hand before he remembered that she was clutching a cat.

She just kept on smiling, juggling Fidget around a bit until she was able to reach out and take his hand in hers.

"I'm Ruth," she told him.

Her hand was small and warm and Harry quite liked the way it felt, wrapped inside his own.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ruth," he answered, holding his grip a moment longer than was strictly necessary. He couldn't say why, but he was most reluctant to let her go.

She just stood there, looking at him, and Harry got the feeling that there was a lot more to Ruth than met the eye. She wore a long, flowy skirt and a soft chambray button-down shirt, a single pearl on a silver chain around her neck. The overall effect was sort of bohemian and lovely, and there was something warm and knowing in her gaze that made Harry feel instantly at ease with her.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly with a slight shake of her head, as though rousing herself out of some deep thought. "I have to go to work."

"Of course," Harry replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Ruth looked at him again for a long moment, and smiled slightly before saying gently, "'Bye, then."

It was at that point Harry realized he was still standing in her garden, and making something of a nuisance of himself.

"Good bye, Ruth," he said, and headed off towards her front walk, not wanting to repeat his trip through the hedge.

All in all, he felt the day was off to a fine start.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry left Ruth's garden with a distinct spring in his step. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but the expression on his face was the closest thing to happiness to grace his features in quite some time.

He'd been forced to return home for a clean change of clothes, chiding himself for the state he'd managed to get into. As he buttoned a fresh shirt he couldn't help but wonder what on Earth had come over him. Blundering through hedges and dive-bombing renegade housecats was not the sort of behavior one associated with a detective chief inspector.

She was a lovely woman, this Ruth (last name as yet unknown to him), but she was much too young and much too cheerful to be burdened with the attentions of a grumpy old man like him. Harry decided then and there that he would be a gentleman, and not presume to make any sort of advances where she was concerned. He hadn't come to Suffolk in search of romance, after all. This was a self-imposed exile, a time to lick his wounds and fade away from his old life, to follow through on a half-formed plan to renovate the cottage and rent it out before embarking on the sort of travels he'd always dreamed about. It would take a few weeks, maybe even months, before the cottage was really habitable, but once that goal was achieved, Harry had no intentions of staying in the village. It would be unkind to embark on any sort of relationship when he knew full well that he was planning to leave. Now was simply neither the time nor the place for those sorts of…shenanigans.

Having changed his clothes and embraced this new sense of purpose, Harry set off for the shops.

* * *

After a nice little breakfast at the café, Harry walked down the lane toward the collection of shops at the village center, running through the list of supplies he needed in his head. Having located the correct shop, he filled his buggy with a broom, a mop, several rags, and a vast assortment of sprays, gels, and powders. Harry had always been a fastidious, almost fussy man, but the herculean task that waited back at the cottage left him feeling daunted. Not for the first time he wondered if he wouldn't be better off just burning the cottage to the ground and starting over from scratch. The little house had belonged to his father, however, and Harry couldn't help but feel a certain sense of duty, a responsibility to make up for his years of neglect.

James Pearce had never been a particularly happy man, and his son had inherited some of his more despondent tendencies. The cottage had been a sort of haven for James in his later years, a place where he could sit and read and putter about the gardens. This sudden, impassioned onset of botanical interest had surprised Harry a great deal; he had never imagined James, a former detective himself, as the sort of man who enjoyed digging around in the dirt. On his one and only visit to the cottage before his father's death, Harry had watched in fascination as James spent the better part of a weekend out among the flowers and shrubs, watering and pruning and even on occasion talking to the little plants, treating them gently, almost as if they were sentient.

That was the weekend Harry had come to tell James that he and Jane were divorcing, and his father, while not particularly shocked, had unloaded some rather harsh words on him. Something about accountability, and selfishness, and duty to family coming before everything else. Harry had left the cottage in a rage, and he hadn't spoken to his father again. Even after all these years, the memory left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Harry strolled up to the check out, still lost in his own contemplations. The young lady behind the counter smiled warmly at him, her eyes twinkling as she scanned each item.

"Looks like your wife is putting you to work," she said with a mischievous little grin.

Harry stared at her, bewildered for a moment as he dragged himself back into the present. There was no point, he decided, in setting the girl straight; a check out line was not the time for delving into the circumstances that had led him to this point.

"I'm afraid so," he said, assuming a long-suffering sort of expression.

"Poor love," she said in a sympathetic tone. Harry wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to that, so he simply kept his mouth shut, paying for his order and offering a nod in return when she told him to have a good day. She just smiled at him knowingly, and sent him on his way.

* * *

Walking into the village had not been the wisest decision, Harry realized as he struggled down the lane, his arms heavy-laden with all sorts of bags. His thoughts had been elsewhere, as he tried to focus on the work ahead and push aside his memories of his father and his musings on a certain charming neighbor. He could only imagine what he must look like, burdened with shopping as he was, and so resolved to make his way home as quickly as possible, without looking anyone in the eye.

So focused was he on both not dropping his bags and not drawing attention to himself that he very nearly walked directly into a woman standing outside a flower shop. He caught himself at the last moment, and murmured a quick apology before striding past her.

"Harry?"

He spun on his heel, and found himself once more face to face with Ruth. She was smiling at him, her hands full of flowers and a crisp white half-apron tied loosely around her waist.

"Ruth," he gave her a small nod, and then, because he simply couldn't stop himself, he continued, "Buying some flowers, are we?"

She raised an eyebrow at him, and he suddenly registered the significance of the apron. He hadn't exactly been paying attention; he'd been too distracted by the sparkle of her eyes and the loose tendril of dark hair that had fallen attractively across the side of one pale cheek.

 _Well done_ , he thought.

She shook her head, a certain wry expression on her face that made him feel almost as though she could read his thoughts. "This is my shop," she said, gesturing with the flowers in her right hand toward the storefront behind her. There were several old-timey wooden baskets and shelves set out around the front door, and she had apparently been in the process of filling them with said flowers. A metalwork sign above the entrance read _Something Wonderful: Flowers and Gifts_.

"It's lovely," he said honestly, peering past her through the windows, attempting to get a better look at the myriad of bouquets, potted plants, and small, shiny trinkets within. It was cluttered but homey, he thought; it reminded him of his childhood in a way, and sunny afternoons spent following his mother round to the local florists. She always had to have fresh flowers for the table, his mother, but she was too fond of her own plants to pick the bouquets from her own garden.

"Thank you," Ruth said, flushing slightly at the compliment.

Harry felt the pressing need to say something else, and if he hadn't already had his hands full with the cleaning supplies he would have gone inside and bought some flowers himself, never mind that he had nowhere to put them. It would be worth it, to spend a bit more time in her company. Before he got the chance, however, they were interrupted by a handsome man with blonde hair and a friendly smile.

"Morning, Ruth," he said warmly. He had one hand tucked in the pocket of his blue jeans, and a sort of easy confidence that made Harry instantly, painfully aware of his own appearance.

"Adam," Ruth answered in a familiar tone, depositing the flowers haphazardly in a nearby basket before embracing him fondly. Somewhere deep in Harry's chest a little green monster reared its ugly head.

"It can't be Fiona's birthday already," Ruth said as they separated, and Harry's little monster quieted momentarily.

Adam laughed. "No, thankfully, that nightmare is still another month or so away. It's a big one this year, I'll have to really outdo myself when it comes around." The pair of them laughed, as if this were some sort of friendly, inside joke between them, and Harry wondered if he hadn't better just make his retreat. For some reason, though, his feet remained glued to the spot.

Adam was still talking. "No, I'm afraid I've put my foot in it, and I am in rather desperate need of a suitable peace offering. I was hoping you might be able to help me in that department."

"Of course," Ruth answered brightly. "Why don't you go in and have a look around, and once I get this sorted," she gestured toward her precarious pile of flowers, "I'll come give you a hand."

"Thanks, love," he said, and made his way into the shop, but not before catching Harry's eye and giving him an appraising sort of look.

"Friend of yours?" Harry asked as Ruth turned her attention back to the flowers. Her saw her smile, but she did not face him as she answered.

"Oh, Adam's a regular customer. His wife Fiona is rather…particular, and he's in here all the time picking up little things for her. There's not much choice, if you want to buy something in the village. I suppose I'm on a first name basis with just about every man in town."

Harry raised an eyebrow at that, and even though she couldn't see him it appeared that Ruth had also reached the same conclusion about the implications of her words. She turned around with a start, and Harry couldn't help but smile when he noticed she was blushing again. She seemed to do that a lot, seemed to wear her heart on her sleeve, and Harry added this openness to the growing list of things he found fascinating about this woman.

"Oh, you know what I mean," she huffed, and he just laughed.

"Yes, I suppose you do. The village florist really can be a man's best friend."

"Are you married, Harry?" she asked suddenly.

 _Where on earth did that come from?_ He wondered. Some of his confusion must have showed on his face because she rushed on, "I only meant, if you ever need anything for your wife, I hope you'll stop by."

"I'm not married," he answered, not wanting to delve into the particulars of his situation, "but I am in the process of replanting the gardens at the cottage. When the time comes, I shall certainly come to you for advice."

She beamed at him. "Please do," she told him earnestly. "I have quite the greenhouse out back; I grow most of what I sell, and I've a sizeable collection of shrubs and seeds and things. I'd love to help."

"That's good," he said, simply because he couldn't think of anything else to say. It _was_ good, though, good to know that he would have an excuse to see her again. He might have promised himself that he wouldn't pursue her romantically, but that didn't mean he had to avoid her altogether, did it?

Having arranged the flowers to her satisfaction, Ruth no longer had any reason to linger out front of the shop with him, and the realization that Adam was waiting inside seemed to hit her at the same moment that it occurred to Harry that he had better leave her to her work.

"I really must be going," she said, just as Harry said, "I'll leave you to it."

They grinned at one another for a moment.

"Bye, then," Ruth said for the second time that morning.

"Good-bye, Ruth," Harry answered, and as one they turned in opposite directions, and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

**I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's read/reviewed this story. Since y'all asked so nicely, here's a little update for you.**

* * *

After an arduous day spent scrubbing every single surface in the kitchen, from the crown molding to the baseboards, Harry went to the pub again for supper that night. As it happened, Adam, the young man he'd met at the flower shop earlier in the day, had also stopped in for a quick pint. Harry watched as Adam made his way towards the back of the pub, where a group of six or seven other men had pushed together several tables and were already laughing and talking and furiously approaching that happy level of drunkenness with which some men like to greet the coming weekend. Adam caught sight of Harry as he passed, and stopped by his table to say hello.

"Adam Carter," he said, extending a hand, "I apologize for not introducing myself earlier; you looked like you had your hands full."

"Harry Pearce," Harry told him as they shook hands. "I just moved into a cottage down the way," he said by way of explanation for his earlier purchases.

"Oh?" Adam asked. "From where?"

"London," Harry answered.

Adam nodded. "Well, I see that Ruth has already welcomed you to town," he said knowingly, and Harry wondered what on earth he meant by that.

"She lives across the lane from me," Harry told him. "She's been very kind."

"Yes, well, that's because Ruth is a very kind person."

Before Harry could say anything else, one of the chaps in the back of the pub spotted Adam, and bellowed his name.

Adam gave Harry a cheeky grin. "I'm being summoned. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

"And you," Harry answered politely. As he watched the young man depart Harry felt a growing concern about the purpose of their little chat. He knew this was a small village, and a new face would probably be gossip fodder for weeks to come, but there had been something deliberate in the way that Adam sought him out, something almost territorial in his tone when he spoke about Ruth that left Harry feeling distinctly uneasy.

The rest of his meal passed in silence and solitude.

* * *

The next morning, Harry was up with the sun, as ever. It was Saturday, and he had arranged for removal men to come by later and cart off most of the furniture. The dining table and accompanying chairs were made of solid oak and still quite sturdy, and he was certain that with a good sanding and re-staining he could get them looking good as new again, so they would remain. The sitting room, office, and first floor bedroom were to be stripped bare; nothing in any of those rooms was salvageable. The furnishings in the bedroom upstairs were serviceable and would stay put for now, but he was planning to have his own things moved in at a later date. All in all he supposed he was in for a busy afternoon, and was once more planning to set off to the café for breakfast.

And so it was that he made his way out of the cottage at just past seven, and started his journey into the village. As he walked he mused that this wasn't such a bad way to live; it was rather nice to wake up to peace and quiet, as opposed to the sound of traffic or a shrilly ringing mobile heralding some new catastrophe. The walk was pleasant, at least in this summer weather, and he would have to pass by Something Wonderful to reach the café, which meant that there was every possibility he might run into Ruth again. No, this life wasn't bad at all.

The waitress at the cafe remembered him from yesterday, and she made his tea just the way he liked it without being asked, and handed him his paper with a smile. Harry contemplated his newfound contentment as he seated himself at a little table on the sidewalk outside the café, newspaper propped open in front of him. Three days ago he'd been absolutely bloody miserable at the prospect of leaving his life in London behind, and now he was…well, _happy_.

It wasn't any one thing really, but rather a combination of things; freedom from bureaucracy and the constant feeling of being watched, the fresh air, the lack of tension, the friendly faces that greeted him at every turn, all coalesced into a general, wholesome sort of normalcy that he was beginning to enjoy immensely. The detective in him wondered when the other shoe would drop; the man in him rejoiced in the peacefulness of it all.

As he waited for his bacon sandwich Harry watched the village come alive around him. The shopkeepers strolled in, unlocking doors, waving to one another, and, in some cases, pulling their wares out to be displayed on the street. A few cars passed him by, but most of the people he saw were on foot. As it was the weekend, and still rather early, there were few enough of them that he didn't feel particularly on edge, and he attempted to turn his attention to his newspaper. He kept glancing away, however, in the direction of the flower shop. The door was still closed and the lights were still off; perhaps Ruth opened up a little later on Saturdays.

The waitress brought him his breakfast, and he set about the very serious business of eating it, his eyes focused on the paper. There were all sorts of horrible things going on in the world, but in his quiet little corner of Suffolk, it all seemed very far away.

Like all good things, however, his breakfast came to an end, and Harry forced himself to his feet, knowing he had a great deal to do before the removal men arrived. As he folded up his paper he glanced once more down the street, and was rewarded with the sight of Ruth, arranging flowers outside her shop. With a smile on his face he rushed inside the café to pay for his breakfast, hoping she'd still be out front when he started back down the lane. If the young woman behind the café counter noticed his impatience, she didn't comment on it, and she sent him on his way with blessedly little small talk.

Harry tried to appear as nonchalant as possible as he approached the flower shop, watching Ruth at work. She wore another long skirt today, her hair pulled back from her face and that same little pearl necklace just visible above the collar of her blouse. He could see her profile quite well; she had a very serious expression on her face, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she shifted the brightly colored blossoms around to her satisfaction. He was hesitant to interrupt her when she seemed so absorbed in her work, but he couldn't let the opportunity pass him by.

"Good morning, Ruth," he said as he drew level with her.

She whirled on him, startled perhaps, but the smile he was expecting never came.

"Is it?" she said acidly, dropping the flowers she was holding and wiping her hands violently on her apron.

"Isn't it?" he asked, very confused. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been all smiles and blushes and lingering glances, and now she very nearly vibrated with scarcely concealed contempt.

"I've just had a call from Jo," she told him, as if this explained everything.

Harry didn't have the faintest idea who Jo was. Something in his expression must have conveyed his bewilderment, because she continued, "You know, Jo. At the shop." She gestured down the street toward the shop where Harry had purchased his supplies the day before. "She wanted to warn me, you see. She saw us talking yesterday, and she wanted me to know that you were married and I shouldn't waste my time."

A number of things clicked into place all at once.

Before Harry could explain himself, she barreled on. "You _lied_ to me, Harry! To my face! I'd love to know why. I'd love to pop round your cottage later and ask your wife what she thinks you're doing, going around telling people you're not married when you are."

She wasn't shouting, exactly, but her voice carried a good way, and Harry desperately hoped no one else was listening to her diatribe.

"Ruth, please, listen to me. I didn't lie to you." She rolled her eyes, and Harry felt his own ire beginning to rise. Who did she think she was, to treat him this way over such a silly misunderstanding?

"I'm not married. I'm divorced. This- Jo, is it? She made some remark at the check out about how my wife must have given me a list of things to do. Rather than burden her with the whole sorry story, I simply agreed and let her think what she wanted to think."

Ruth considered this for a moment, hands on her hips.

"So, you didn't lie to me," she said slowly, "you lied to Jo. So that's no big deal then. She's just a shop girl, she's not anyone important." The sarcasm in her voice was impossible to miss. She turned her back on him, once more focused on her flowers.

"Everyone's important, Ruth," Harry said quietly. "Whether they work in Whitehall or a supermarket checkout, they're important to someone. I didn't correct Jo because I didn't think she'd want to hear the whole story. I didn't think she'd remember the conversation, and I certainly didn't intend to hurt you or her in the process."

Ruth kept her back to him, but he could almost feel her thinking, and he was content to stay where he was until she was ready to speak to him again.

"You really believe that, don't you?" she asked quietly, still not looking at him. "That everyone's important."

"Of course I do. We need shop girls and mechanics and businessmen and politicians, and we need all of them. The world wouldn't work if you removed any one piece of the puzzle."

Ruth turned around again, and this time, her expression was decidedly more friendly, even if she wasn't smiling. She had finished with the flowers, lovely little bunches all arranged just so, and Harry couldn't help but admire the care with which she had preformed even this little task.

"Who are you important to then, Harry?" she asked in a gentle, almost teasing sort of voice.

Harry forced a laugh. "Oh, I'm retired. I'm not important to anyone."

"I don't think that's true," she said softly, and Harry had to fight to tamp down the hope that welled up inside him at her words. Her cheeks reddened slightly as if in embarrassment, and Harry wondered what on earth she had to be embarrassed about; he was the one who'd cocked it all up in the first place.

But apparently, Jo had felt the need to warn Ruth not to waste her time on him, which seemed to imply that Ruth was _spending_ her time on him, and that was a very pleasant thought. And Ruth had been upset to learn that he was married; did these two facts in combination mean she was interested in him? It seemed impossible, but she was still standing there in front of him, blushing just a little, and his hopes suddenly seemed a bit more justified than they had moments before.

"Morning, Ruth!" A cheery shout came from somewhere behind him, and when he turned Harry found himself looking at bright young woman with long blonde hair and a wide smile. She was locking her bike to a little post near the storefront, having apparently just ridden up.

"Morning, Sam!" Ruth answered as the girl approached them.

"Harry, this is Sam," Ruth introduced them. "She helps me out from time to time."

"Got a big wedding up at the farm this afternoon," Sam told him in a thick Scottish brogue.

"The farm?" Harry repeated, turning slightly towards Ruth, but it was Sam who answered him.

"There's a lovely big farm just outside of town, and this time of year there's a wedding nearly every weekend. People come from all over; it's right by the sea and the view's just heavenly. And there's a big open barn with plenty of room for tables and a dance floor."

"And we've got a million and one things to do before this afternoon, so we really must be going," Ruth said apologetically.

Harry waved her away. "Then by all means, don't let me keep you."

Ruth stood there a moment longer, smiling at him, and he was very conscious of Sam's stare, flitting between the pair of them.

"Bye, then," Ruth said suddenly, turning towards the door.

"Good-bye, Ruth," Harry said, watching for a moment as she and Sam passed him by, heads bent close together. He could swear he heard the Scottish girl giggling.

And then they were gone, and he was left to set off for home, alone.


	4. Chapter 4

The thorough scrubbing of the cottage took Harry the better part of a week, during which he established a sort of routine for himself. Up early every morning, walk into the village for breakfast, stop and chat with Ruth on his way home, clean all day, dinner in the pub, then a whiskey at the kitchen table before falling into bed at a decent hour. If he were being honest with himself, those few moments he'd spend standing outside Something Wonderful with Ruth had quickly become the highlight of his days, and he looked forward to them a great deal more than he should. Especially considering he'd only known her for a week, and he'd promised himself that he wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't get involved with her.

That she was pretty, and charming, and had quoted Homer (in the original Greek no less) to him the other day was beside the point.

With the cottage cleaned up, his next order of business was a test of the electrical wiring. The appliances in the kitchen were ancient, and Harry was quite concerned about the clothes washer and tumble dryer as well, so up to now he hadn't turned on anything except for the lights, nor had he plugged in anything more powerful than a mobile phone charger. Not that anyone called his mobile; his daughter and ex-wife refused to speak to him, he didn't even have a number for his son at the moment, and he was a pariah to all his former colleagues. Funny how quickly a life could a change, how easily a man could isolate himself from everyone who knew him. He hadn't even realized it was happening, until he woke up one morning and realized that if anything were to happen to him, the only people who were likely to notice were Ruth and the waitress at the café.

This gloomy train of thought stayed with him as he dressed on Thursday morning, sighing when he looked at the window and realized it was raining. Well, not raining, more drizzling. This presented him with a problem. Should he drive into the village, thus denying himself the excuse to walk past Ruth's shop and say good morning, or should he walk, and risk the drizzle turning into a downpour? He told himself he was being ridiculous, that the sensible thing to do would be to just drive and say hello to Ruth tomorrow; but even as he waged this internal war with himself he was picking up his umbrella and heading out the door and down the lane on foot.

 _Idiot,_ he thought, grumbling under his breath as he went, knowing his shoes were going to be absolutely dripping with mud by the time he reached the café. And still he walked.

His luck held, however, and the drizzle continued at its same steady pace, and he was spared the embarrassment of walking into the café completely drenched. This time, his cup of tea, newspaper, and bacon sandwich were ready and waiting when he arrived.

"Morning, Harry," the waitress said with a smile.

"Morning, Zoe," he returned politely, stowing his umbrella out of the way near the door before making his way to the counter.

"Don't tell me you walked all this way in the rain!" she exclaimed when she caught sight of him.

He gave her what he thought was a roguish smile. "Oh, it's not so bad. A brisk walk in the morning is just the thing to get the blood flowing."

"Oh, it's the walking that does it for you, is it Harry?" she asked mischievously. He didn't usually sit at the counter while he ate, preferring the table out on the sidewalk, but he had made that one small concession to the weather. He was regretting it now, however; there was something in her tone that made him wonder if anyone else had noticed his morning chats with Ruth. He didn't want people to get the wrong impression.

He took too long in formulating his answer, and another customer arrived and stole Zoe's attention away before he had the chance to find out just what she'd meant. He tried to focus on the newspaper, but thoughts of Ruth kept interfering, making it hard to concentrate on anything else. He told himself he didn't know anything about her; he didn't know if she'd grown up in the village, if she'd gone to university (though, given the Greek, he supposed she probably had), didn't know if she preferred white wine or red, or anything, really. They talked of minor things, of business at the shop, and how he was getting on with the cottage, and on one particular morning they'd had a rather rousing debate about Palestine that had come quite out of the blue, and that he had enjoyed immensely. What he'd really like, if he were being honest with himself, would be to take her out somewhere nice for a meal, and try to find the answers to as many of those questions as possible.

But that was the sort of thing he had promised himself he wouldn't do, and so he supposed he would have to make due with continuing their quiet, rather banal morning chats.

Breakfast was over much more quickly than usual today, given that he wasn't actually reading his newspaper and that with his back turned to the street outside thus he was denied the opportunity to do his usual people-watching. He paid Zoe for his meal, tucked the newspaper up under his arm, collected his umbrella, and set out into the rain once more.

Ruth wasn't outside the shop this morning; he supposed she didn't set the flowers out when it was raining. He found himself once more faced with a dilemma. It was one thing, to bump into her on the sidewalk and say good morning, but quite another to go into the shop, thereby making it very clear that he was deliberately seeking her out. He could buy something, he supposed, but he had nowhere to put any flowers, and precious little space for any of the "gifts" referenced in the sign above her door. His furniture was set to arrive from London on Saturday, and until then, anything he bought would simply sit on the floor. He could try to talk to her about his plans for the garden, but that particular project was still several weeks away. He needed to paint the inside of the house, take care of the dining table and chairs, and mend the fence before he could start planning what to do with the landscaping. Asking her about it now would be just as obvious as wandering into the shop without a purpose.

The prospect of not saying good morning to her, however, was intolerable, and so it was that he took a deep breath, and for the first time, entered her shop.

There was a little tinkling bell just above the door that signaled his arrival as he stepped through.

"Just a minute!" he heard her call out from somewhere in the back, and he smiled.

"I'm in no hurry!" he answered, and he heard a sort of crashing noise, as if she'd just dropped something. He smiled to himself, and strolled around the shop, taking it all in.

The walls were lined with shelves bearing candles and cards and an assortment of small, shiny things, pretty little trinkets to let the one you love know that you were thinking of them, or perhaps to disguise the fact that you'd forgotten a birthday and stopped at the first shop you came to on your way home. The floor of the shop was taken up by various stands of flowers, grouped together by type; roses here, lilies there, and so on. One corner was given over entirely to potted plants and hanging baskets of various sizes, and a stand by the counter on the far side of the shop held ready-made bouquets, perfect for the man who had no idea what he was looking for but needed something in a hurry. There was a heavenly smell in the air, and classical music drifted quietly through little speakers tucked up in the rafters. He stopped by a display of seeds, perusing the names and wondering about his own garden. He quite liked the idea of starting from scratch, but that was the sort of thing one did when planning to stay in one place for a while. Which he most certainly was not.

"Good morning, Harry," Ruth said breathlessly as she emerged from a door behind the counter, wiping her hands ineffectually on her apron. She had a smudge of dirt across one cheek, and Harry had to fight the urge to reach out and brush it away himself.

"Good morning, Ruth," he answered as she came to stand beside him.

"Looking for anything in particular?" she asked, smiling up at him. He'd never been this close to her before, and he'd never noticed how small she really was. Her presence nearly overwhelmed him sometimes, and she made up in spirit what she lacked in stature.

"Oh, just looking really. Planning ahead." Which was true. While that hadn't necessarily been his intention when he entered the shop, he had been distracted by the prospect of the seeds, and everything they suddenly seemed to represent to him.

"Are you ready to start work on the garden, then?"

He laughed and shook his head. "No, I'm afraid that particular project will have to wait. There's still a great deal to be done inside."

She had her mouth open to ask him another question when they were interrupted by the ringing of a mobile. His mobile, as it turned out. He spared a glance at the screen before answering, and felt his stomach do a little flip. What on earth could Towers possibly want with him?

"Pearce," he answered out of sheer force of habit, trying to give Ruth an apologetic expression. She just nodded and stepped away, finding some little task to keep her busy while he talked.

"Harry!" Towers's too-loud voice came through the phone. "I hope retirement is treating you well."

"As well as can be expected, sir," Harry answered carefully. He noticed Ruth's eyes flick towards him at the word _sir_ ; he hadn't told her what he used to do for a living, why he'd come to the village, any of it.

"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it. Listen, Harry, would you fancy coming into the city for a drink, say Saturday night? I've got something I want to run past you."

"Saturday?" Harry repeated, buying himself some time to think. The shop was closed on Sundays, he'd learned; if he woke up hungover or - god forbid - spent the night in the city, at least he wouldn't have to worry about missing Ruth on Sunday morning. But the removal men were set to come on Saturday afternoon, and so he said, "I'm afraid I'm already engaged on Saturday-"

"Sunday, then!" Towers said, as if Harry had just agreed. Harry got the feeling he didn't really have a choice in the matter, anyway. "I'll ring you later with the details. Take care, Harry."

"And you, sir," Harry said, hanging up with a sigh.

"Everything all right?" Ruth asked timidly from behind the counter. Harry stowed his mobile in his jacket pocket and made his way towards her, leaning against the counter as he ran a hand over his face.

"My former employer has asked me to come into the city this weekend."

Ruth looked at him for a long moment before her laughter came bubbling out; her cheeks dimpled when she laughed, and her eyes crinkled up, and even though she raised a hand to cover her mouth in embarrassment Harry couldn't help but think how lovely she looked just then.

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's just that when you say it like that it makes it sound like you were some sort of gangster, Harry," she said by way of explanation, once she'd gotten the giggles under control.

"In a way I was," Harry mused, but the connection was lost on Ruth, who immediately lost all traces of her previous mirth. Realizing that she'd gotten the wrong end of the stick, he continued, "I was a police officer. A detective."

Something seemed to shift in her then, a certain sense of understanding shining out of her clear grey eyes as she considered him.

"That's where I recognized you from," she said softly, almost to herself.

Harry was lost. "I'm sorry?"

"When we met, I kept thinking I'd seen you somewhere before and I just realized where it was. You were in the paper, a few weeks ago."

 _Christ._

It had followed him even here, then. The mess back in London clung to him like the mud on his shoes, and it seemed there was nowhere he could hide from it.

"Ruth-"

She shook her head. "It's all right, Harry. You don't have to explain it to me. I'm sure you're tired of talking about it."

He _was_ tired of talking about it; there had been an informal debriefing, and then a very formal inquiry, and a million reporters hanging about, and through it all he'd told the story hundreds of times. He'd talked until his throat was sore, and still it hadn't been enough, and people wanted to know more. If he never had to tell the story again that would be fine by him, but he desperately wanted Ruth to know the truth, to know that he wasn't the sort of man the papers made him out to be.

"I don't think you're a murderer, Harry," she said quietly, and not for the first time he wondered if she could read his mind. "I didn't think that when I read about it in the paper, and I don't think that now. You had a very dangerous job and you did the best you could under intolerable pressure."

Harry just stared at her, utterly at a loss for words. She never stopped surprising him.


	5. Chapter 5

**I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's reading/reviewing this story. I promise I won't keep you waiting forever, but Harry needs to get know Ruth a little better before he makes any big leaps! Thank you for sticking with me (and with Harry and Ruth) while we continue on this journey.**

* * *

The days continued to pass, one right after the other, and at the end of a month, what had started out as a sort of liberating holiday in the countryside had devolved into a quaint prison for Harry Pearce. His days were quiet, surrounded by the trivialities of village life; Zoe at the café would gossip to him about Jo at the supermarket, and Adam and his lads would invite him to join them at the pub (albeit with the understanding that he would say no), and nothing ever happened and nothing ever seemed to change. He'd primed and painted the walls of his cottage, sanded and painted the front door, replaced the missing shutters, arranged his furniture just so and then rearranged it before putting it back the way it was to begin with. He had a man called Malcolm come round at Ruth's recommendation to check the appliances, and had been cleared to cook in his own kitchen. He'd mended the broken window and the warped fence boards and replaced the gate. All that was left to him was the garden.

If he took it easy, he supposed he could spend a week on the front garden, and a week on the back, and have the whole thing done just like that. If he stuck to his plan, it would be six weeks he'd spent fixing up the cottage. Then he could move on, the way he always wanted to. He supposed it would take some time to find someone willing to rent the cottage, though he heard it from Zoe who heard it from Jo who heard it from someone else that a lad with the unlikely name of Zaf was looking for a place to live. He meant to ask someone if they could put him in touch with the young man in question, but he kept forgetting, and he had the feeling that by this time he may have lost that opportunity.

No matter. He needed some time to plan his trip, anyway. He would start in Paris, and go from there to Rome. After that, well, he'd just have to wait and see.

The only thing he'd miss, once he left this village behind, was Ruth.

* * *

Harry strolled down Center Street one Monday morning, heading for Something Wonderful with a dual purpose. As usual, he was planning to run into Ruth, but he was also ready to start his project in the front garden. The lawn was overgrown and home to more weeds than grass, and the flowerbeds that had once been so lovingly tended were in desperate need of mulching and replanting. He had a vague notion of what he wanted for the garden, but he was eager to see what Ruth had in mind first. He had come to respect her opinion on most topics, horticulture not least of all, and if he were being honest with himself, he would take her advice over his own most any day.

As was usual for her at this time of the morning, Ruth was standing out front of the shop, setting out her wares for the day's business. He'd learned that in addition to the shop, she also ran a small delivery service that consisted of a rather enthusiastic young man named Tariq and a bicycle. She provided flowers for the local church, and was the only florist permitted to service weddings up at the farm. Her greenhouse provided plants and seeds for every garden in town, and, though this last occupation did not come with any salary, she was also a sort of therapist for the local couples, dispensing advice with a steady hand and a warm heart. That she herself lived alone and had no suitors to speak of didn't seem to matter much to the people who sought her out; they, like Harry, were drawn to her quiet wisdom, and trusted her implicitly.

Harry made his way towards her this morning, smiling just a little as he watched her at work. She wore a long skirt and a loose button-down shirt under her apron, as ever; in a month Harry had never once seen her wearing trousers. It seemed impractical, for someone whose work involved so much labor, but Ruth was Ruth, and he liked her just the way she was. Before he reached her, she was interrupted by a young man Harry had seen lingering around the shop a time or two before. Danny, he believed the lad was called.

"Morning, Ruth," Danny said, and though he usually wore a cheeky grin, this morning he seemed despondent, and Ruth noticed right away. She'd propped open the front door of the shop while she worked, so Harry slipped inside unnoticed, pretending to be deeply involved in the study of some potted geraniums while he discreetly listened to their conversation.

"All right, Danny?" she asked, turning to face him with a slightly worried expression on her face.

"I'm fine," he said, in a tone that seemed to indicate he wasn't fine at all.

"Danny," Ruth said, a maternal sort of warning in her voice that had Danny shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

"It's Sam!" he burst out, looking sheepishly over his shoulder when he realized how loudly he'd spoken. "I think she likes me," he continued, much quieter this time, "but no matter how many times I ask her to go out with me, she keeps saying no."

Ruth wiped her hands on her apron before running her fingers through her soft dark hair, and Harry watched the movement from the corner of his eye, mesmerized as always by every tiny thing she did.

"She does like you, Danny," Ruth said softly, and the young man beamed at her for a moment. "What have you said to her?"

"I invited her to the pub with me and the lads on Friday night, and she all but laughed in my face," he said, his momentary smile fading fast.

Ruth laughed at him, too. "Oh, Danny," she said fondly. "You didn't ask her out on a proper date! That's why she said no. Do you really think she wants to spend a Friday night with Adam and Tariq and all the rest at the pub? She wants to go out with _you_ , not your friends."

Danny stared at her in disbelief.

"Listen to me very carefully, Danny," she said seriously, and he leaned towards her, eager to hear what she had to say. Harry was eager, too; though he'd promised himself that he wouldn't push for anything more than friendship with Ruth, he was very curious to hear what she had to say on the subject of dinner dates.

"Sam wants what every woman wants. She wants to feel special, she wants to feel like you want to spend time with _her._ Here's what you ought to do. Come round here on Wednesday afternoon, and I'll put together a little something for you. You can meet her when she comes out of the library, give her the flowers, and ask her if she wants to go to dinner, with you, _alone_ , on Friday night, somewhere that isn't the pub. I can promise you, she won't laugh at you this time."

Danny smiled and impulsively leaned towards her, kissing her on the cheek. "You're an angel, Ruth!" he said excitedly. With a quick glance at his watch he made his escape, assuring her that he would meet her Wednesday afternoon to pick up the bouquet for Sam. Ruth watched him dash off down the street, shaking her head slightly before turning her attention back to her flowers.

"You can stop lurking now, Harry," she said in a gentle voice, a little smirk playing about her lips as she worked.

 _Damn._

Harry came out of the shop, hands tucked in his pockets, trying to look contrite.

"Good morning, Ruth," he said. _You look lovely today,_ he thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

"What was that all about, Harry? You could have said hello. Danny doesn't bite." She was almost finished; today's arrangement was comprised entirely of wildflowers, of every different color, and though they were quite ordinary, when combined with Ruth's flair for placement and the overwhelming sense of her presence, Harry thought the sight before him was quite the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"He looked like a man on a mission. I didn't want to interrupt." She smiled as she turned to him, and not for the first time he wondered why she bothered to take the time to talk to him each day. He had very little to offer someone as bright and cheerful and kind as Ruth. "You gave him some very good advice," he continued, and she blushed at the compliment, dropping her gaze to the toes of her boots.

"I have to admit, I have some inside knowledge of the situation. Sam was complaining to me about it the other day. I just told him what she was too embarrassed to say herself."

"Ah, to be young," Harry mused.

"And in love," Ruth finished his thought in a quiet voice. She seemed somehow very sad, all of a sudden, and Harry fished about, desperate for something to say, some way to make her smile again.

"I think it's time I started on the front garden," he said after a long moment during which they simply stared at one another, neither willing to face the tension that had sprung up between them. She brightened at his words, and he followed her into the shop as she began to talk animatedly about shrubs and whether or not he had the space to plant a tree or two.

Harry wasn't really listening; he was too distracted by the way she moved her hands as she spoke, and the way her eyes seemed to light up at the prospect of designing the garden.

"I can put you in touch with a friend of mine who has a mulching business; you can either buy it from him and spread it yourself, or pay him to do the whole bit," she was saying, and Harry struggled to bring himself back into the moment. She was looking at him like she expected him to say something, but before he could the tinkling bell above the door announced another visitor.

The newcomer was a tall, rail-thin woman with a sharp, angular face and a distinctly unfriendly expression. She wore a police uniform that went quite well with her scowl, her dark eyes scanning the shop as if on the prowl for criminal activity. Harry raised an eyebrow at Ruth, who swatted him lightly on the arm, clearly trying not to smile.

"Good morning, Ros," she said tentatively, and Ros's eyes snapped to her face at once.

"Ruth," she answered. She gave Harry an appraising sort of look before continuing. "Please, don't let me interrupt you." She crossed her arms and leaned back against the window by the door. This Ros had a challenging sort of confidence, a certain demeanor that seemed to suggest she was utterly in control of any room she entered. Harry had met a few women like her, during his years as a detective, women who had fought hard to reach their status and were unwilling, even for a moment, to let emotion prevail over cool logic and justice. He'd heard a great deal about Ros from various neighbors over the last few weeks; she was generally respected, but that respect came along with a healthy does of fear and a fervent desire from most of the local residents to remain as far away from her as possible.

"I'm afraid we might be awhile," Harry said, surprising even himself. "Ruth, why don't you help Ros first, and then we can get back to the garden?"

Ruth regarded him for a moment before nodding, and leaving his side to take care of Ros.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, and Ros offered a thin-lipped smile in return.

"Is Tariq working today?" Ros asked, still leaning against the window. Ruth nodded in reply.

Harry couldn't help but notice how much quieter Ruth was with Ros; usually when customers came in she was all smiles and teasing suggestions, a ray of sunlight in the dim shop. With Ros, though, she was timid, holding herself back, and he had to wonder why. There was a tension between the pair of them. It wasn't quite animosity, but it was close.

"I'm wondering if I could arrange a delivery for this afternoon," Ros said.

"Of course. For Jo?"

Ros's eyes flashed dangerously for a moment, and her voice was icy when she replied. "Yes, for Jo. She's working at the supermarket this morning, but she'll be home around 2:00, and I'd like for the flowers to arrive sometime after that."

"Anything in particular?" Ruth asking, moving automatically towards the roses on the far side of the shop.

"Lilies," Ros answered shortly, and Harry thought he saw the ghost of a smile on Ruth's face before she turned around.

"Lilies?" she repeated.

Ros shrugged. "We watched this insipid little film last night and-" she seemed to have remembered Harry's presence because she stopped herself with a little shake of her head and a glance in his direction. She didn't seem to be the sort of person who dealt with emotional things very well, and she _really_ didn't seem like the sort of person who talked about her personal life where strangers could overhear. "It has to be lilies," she finished firmly.

"Right," Ruth said lightly, trying to break the tension in the room. "Any particular color? How many were you thinking?"

"Why don't you just put together something and I'll pay for it? Really, Ruth, I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Just give me a moment, Ros. I'll take a look at what I have in the back and then I'll be able to tell you how much it'll cost."

Ros dismissed her with a wave of her hand, and just like that, Harry and Ros were the only people in the shop.

She was still leaning up against the window, surveying him coolly, and Harry wondered if it would be better to say something to her, or to allow the silence to continue. Both options seemed rather unbearable, at the moment, but Ros made up his mind for him.

"I've heard all about you, you know," she said quietly. Harry just stared at her. "Big shot detective back in London 'til it all went pear-shaped and you had to come back to your father's cottage with your tail between your legs."

He wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve being spoken to in that tone of voice, and he had his mouth open to tell her exactly what he thought of _her_ , but she continued, unrelenting.

"Don't think we don't all see what you're doing. You think you can just waltz in here and pounce on the first available bit of skirt you see? You don't know anything about her, you don't have any idea what she's been through, and if you think for one second that the rest of us are going to stand idly by while you hurt her-"

"I've no intention of hurting anyone," Harry said quietly. Was that really what people thought of him? That he was taking advantage of a vulnerable woman? And what on earth had Ros meant by _what's she's been through?_ She was right, he realized dimly. He didn't know anything about Ruth at all, except that she was kind, and generous, and that the people of this village for some reason felt very protectively towards her.

Ros laughed. "I'll believe that when I see it."

"Believe what?" Ruth asked as she slipped back into the shop.

"Harry was just telling me about his ambitious plans for the garden," Ros lied smoothly. Ruth smiled at him, and the gesture went through him like a knife.

"Oh, I'm sure it'll be just fine. About the lilies for Jo," she said, and Ros crossed the shop to the counter to pay for her delivery.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Please don't hate me for what's about to happen.**

* * *

Harry spent the next few days alternatively digging savagely in the front garden and contemplating what Ros had told him. _Was_ he hurting Ruth? Did she see their quiet morning chats as more than idle flirtation? Did she perhaps _wish_ that they were something more? He planned to finish the cottage in two weeks, but there was still the matter of finding someone to rent it, and actually making the arrangements for his holiday. And there was always the possibility that he'd come back here, once his travels were over. He hadn't planned that far ahead; he had been thinking dimly of renting a flat somewhere, when he was ready to return to England. The cottage was much too big for just one person. But if he were to take Ruth out to dinner, and to explain the situation, he could leave the decision entirely up to her. No one could accuse him of hurting her when he left, if she'd known all along that he was going, and no one could accuse him of stringing her along, if she was the one who decided that they should remain just friends.

That idea had some potential.

So it was that Harry found himself making his way towards Something Wonderful on a gloomy Wednesday morning feeling more nervous than he had in quite some time. He had a vague plan in mind, to suggest that perhaps they ought to get a meal together sometime, maybe Friday night, but beyond that, he was lost. There weren't many options in the village, as far as restaurants went, but to suggest that perhaps they should go into one of the nearby cities, or maybe even round to his for a home cooked meal, seemed to be asking too much too soon. He had decided to wait and see what Ruth's answer would be before making any more concrete plans. If she turned him down, it would all be rather academic, anyway.

As he drew closer to the shop, Harry was troubled to see that Ruth was nowhere to be found, and that the shelves by the front door were empty. He'd lingered a little longer than usual over his tea this morning, running through his prepared speech over and over in his mind, trying to find just the right words to ask her without seeming presumptuous or foolish. By all accounts, she should have been opening the shop by now. Perhaps she was ill?

The lights were on inside, he realized, but when he tried the door, he found that it was locked. Most unusual.

He felt a bit silly, standing on the sidewalk out front of the shop as he was, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen, might be happening already. He'd been a detective for far too long to ignore that gut feeling of impending disaster, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if it would be an overreaction if he were to call Ros. Of course he didn't have her number, but he'd seen Jo going into the supermarket a few minutes ago, perhaps she could-

From somewhere in the back of the shop Harry heard a crash, and the muffled sound of shouting. Before he could make a move, he caught sight of someone rushing out of the storeroom in the back of the shop, heading right for him. Harry moved to the side, and in a moment a dark haired man appeared, unlocking the door and stepping through. Harry heard the sound of a car pulling up behind him.

The dark haired man was headed right for him, a furious expression on his face, and when he registered Harry's presence, his scowl deepened. "So you're him, are you?" the man demanded angrily. "What the hell do you think you're doing, sniffing round other people's-"

"George!" Ros's voice rang out sharply behind them. Harry turned, and saw her rushing out of her police cruiser, glaring daggers at the pair of them.

George leered at her, raising both his hands in a gesture of capitulation. "Morning, Ros," he said snidely.

"Remember our last conversation, George," Ros said in an icy tone. "If I find out you've laid hands on her again I'll-"

"Do nothing, like you always do," he interrupted her, his tone slimy and smug, lowering his hands and tucking them in his pockets. "Have a good day, Ros," he sneered, and sauntered off down the street, leaving Harry alone and bewildered with a fuming Ros.

"I'll kill him," she muttered under her breath. "I'll absolutely bloody murder him."

"Ros," Harry started to ask, but she cut across him.

"Have you seen Ruth? Is she all right?"

"I think she's still inside," Harry said. He had a vague notion of what he'd just wandered into, and the thought of what he might find inside the shop filled his heart with dread.

Ros's shoulders drooped wearily as the fight seemed to leave her all at once.

"Come on then," she said, and Harry followed her inside.

* * *

They found Ruth in the storeroom, her back to them as she swept up the shattered remains of what had once been a shelf full of glass vases. Harry couldn't help but notice that her hands were bleeding, leaving thin, sticky trails on the broom handle.

"Ruth," Ros said softly, and Harry watched Ruth's back stiffen, watched her take a deep breath before she turned round to face them.

Rage such as he had not known in quite a while consumed him, and he fought the urge to run out of the shop and track down this George, and murder him with his own hands.

Ruth's lip was split and bleeding, and there was an angry red mark across one of her pale cheeks. It was obvious from her red-rimmed eyes that she had been crying before, but she was still and calm as she faced them now.

"Ruth," Ros said again, her voice low and despairing.

"I'm fine," Ruth told her firmly, clutching the broom to her chest. "Really. I… I tripped, and fell into the shelf. It's nothing."

"You know I don't believe that, Ruth," Ros answered. Ruth just dropped her gaze to the floor, and the pile of sparkling glass that surrounded her.

"It's nothing, Ros. I fell. I'm fine."

"What did George want?" Ros pressed her, unrelenting. Harry desperately wished Ros would leave, that he could have a moment alone with Ruth. He'd seen this sort of thing too many times before, and the thought that Ruth could be caught up in something like this made him simultaneously furious, and impossibly sad.

Ruth sighed, shifting her weight uneasily from one foot to the other, refusing to face either of them. "It doesn't matter. He's gone now."

Ros seemed to be having difficulty keeping her anger in check, and Harry got the feeling that she and Ruth had had this particular argument many times before.

"Ruth, I can't protect you if you won't accept my help."

Ruth jerked her head up, eyes blazing. "I don't need your protection and I don't need your help. Get out of my shop, Ros. Please," she added, though her tone made it clear that she was making a demand, rather than a request.

Ros threw her hands up in the air and stalked away, muttering.

Which left Harry alone with Ruth. This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when he set out to meet her this morning, and he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. The detective in him wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, but the man in him wanted to wrap his arms around her, and never let her go.

"Please don't look at me that way, Harry," Ruth said softly. "I can't stand pity."

"It's not pity," he said evenly. "I don't think you're pitiful, Ruth. I'm just concerned for you. And I'm angry."

She stared at him, grey eyes searching his face in a way they never had before. He stood firm beneath her scrutiny, willing her to understand, to trust him. After a moment she looked away, turning her attentions back to her broom and the pile of glass at her feet.

"Someone called him," she said after a time, and Harry held his breath, waiting for more. "He still has a few friends in the village, you see, and they noticed…you, hanging about, and they called him and told him about it."

Harry's heart sank in his chest like a stone. It was his fault, then. The marks on her face, the cuts on her hands, the devastation in the storeroom, was all because of him. Because he couldn't keep a simple promise to himself, and stay away from her.

"We've been divorced for a few years now," she continued, still not looking at him. "For a while, he kept coming round, threatening to burn down the shop, stupid things like that. He was angry, because when everyone found out – and they _did_ find out, I never told a soul, but I guess people noticed – when people found out what had been happening he lost his job, up at the school, and most of our friends stopped talking to him. He blamed me for the whole thing. We had to sell the house, but the shop's all mine, and he's been trying to figure out a way to take it from me. I hadn't heard from him in months, I thought it was all over, and then he showed up today and he started screaming about how half of this is his and how he wasn't going to let you…"

The words had tumbled out of her at first as she almost tripped over herself to explain, but as she reached the end of her ramblings her voice trailed off, and she stopped moving all together. She was closing in on herself, clearly trying not to cry, and Harry tentatively crossed the floor to stand beside her. He desperately wanted to touch her, to feel her heartbeat beneath his hands and know that she was all right, but he wasn't sure how such a gesture would be received right now, so he kept his hands to himself.

"I'm fine," she said reflexively, but her voice hitched in a way that let him know she was anything _but_ fine, and Harry stopped fighting all his impulses where she was concerned.

The broom clattered to the floor as he pulled her into his arms, and she went with him willingly, collapsing against him as her shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. He just held her close, and let her cry. Her head came up just below his chin, and he could smell the earthy scent of her hair, could feel the heat of her where they touched, and he decided at that moment that no matter what promises he had made to himself, he would be there for her, whenever, however she needed him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered brokenly against his chest. She sniffed, but made no move to leave the protective circle of his arms, and he was quite content to keep her there.

"You've absolutely nothing to be sorry for," he told her earnestly. "This isn't your fault."

She leaned back a little in his arms, staring up at him with tear-stained cheeks. "Isn't it? I married him in the first place. I let things go too far. I knew he'd find out about you, eventually and I-"

"You and I aren't doing anything wrong, Ruth," he said, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice. "We're just talking."

"Is that what we're doing?"

She was still looking up at him, and he found he could not take his eyes from her face. She was lovely, and warm, and close, and she was gazing at him so openly, so honestly, with such longing that she quite took his breath away. He had wanted to kiss her pretty much every day since he'd met her, but never more than in this moment. And he knew the timing could not possibly have been worse. Whatever she needed from him, it wasn't this. She was sad and scared and hurting, and he couldn't bear the thought of taking advantage of her after everything that had happened.

He must have tensed up as he debated with himself about what to do next because he saw the momentary flicker of disappointment cross her face before the shutters closed behind her eyes and she slipped out of his grasp.

"I think you should go now, Harry," she said quietly. "I need to get this cleaned up and I need to get the shop opened, and I'd rather take care of it by myself."

"Ruth, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Please just go." She was practically begging him.

And so he left.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry got very little done that afternoon. Mostly he just sat at the table by the window in the kitchen, staring across the lane at Ruth's little cottage, thinking about how he'd ruined things between them. She had been trying to tell him something, he was sure of it, but as always he was no good where emotional things were concerned, and he'd managed to destroy whatever it was that had blossomed between them in the storeroom.

 _Stupid man,_ he thought.

He didn't know what time Ruth usually came home from work; somewhat improbably, he hadn't seen her anywhere in the nearly five weeks he'd been here, except at the shop. He hadn't allowed himself to spend too much time looking for her at home before now, certain that if he contemplated the reality of her going about the business of her life so close to him he might well go mad. Now, though, he couldn't take his eyes away from the hedgerow where he'd first met her.

On his way out of town he'd stopped by the supermarket, and wheedled Ros's mobile number out of Jo. It hadn't taken that much work on his part, to be honest; Jo was the one who'd seen George entering the shop, who'd called Ros in the first place and alerted her to his presence. Jo had seen Ros and Harry walk into the shop, and she had seen Ros walk out again, alone. The young woman had reached her own conclusions about what that meant, and despite Harry giving her a rather brilliant excuse, she seemed to know exactly what he was after. He was staring at the slip of paper she'd scribbled the number on, considering his next move. It would be nice to have someone to talk to about all this, and despite her acerbic and deeply untrusting nature, it seemed that Ros knew more about the whole situation than anyone else. And it would be nice to talk to her about it, policeman to policeman, as it were.

He sighed, took a very large sip of scotch, and called her.

Ros answered before the second ring.

"I was wondering when this call would come," she said bluntly, and despite the dreadfulness of everything that had happened that morning, Harry had to smile at her opening line, just a little. "Jo told me you asked for my number."

"I was wondering if we could have a little talk."

"Harry, I know you….care about Ruth," Ros said, pronouncing those last words as if the entire concept was something she found deeply distasteful, "but what you have to understand about Ruth is, she's had a really hard time of it. Not just with George. With her parents, and her brother, and everything. She doesn't want any trouble. I've been trying to get her to report him for years but she won't do it. She doesn't want the ugliness of a trial."

Harry sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "We can't just let him get away with this, Ros."

She laughed harshly. "Do you think I like this, Harry? For God's sake, Ruth and I were at school together. I was a bridesmaid in her bloody wedding. We've got no proof. She'll go to her grave saying she fell and hating us both for trying to spoil her life over it."

Harry stared dumbly down at the table. Ros was a _bridesmaid_ in _Ruth's_ wedding? He couldn't quite picture it somehow, the pair of them laughing together and smiling and wearing pretty dresses. It seemed so out of place, given the palpable animosity he'd noticed between them in the shop the other day.

He really didn't know anything about her at all.

"I'm afraid I've made a real mess of things, Ros," he said quietly. He wasn't sure why he was telling her this, and he could tell from the incredulous silence that followed his statement that she wasn't sure why, either.

"I'm not sure why you think this has anything to do with you," Ros said eventually, "but if you think you've done something wrong, then you need to apologize to her. Women like that."

"I'll…take that under advisement, Ros," Harry said, smiling faintly again. She was harsh, and not very personable, but somehow speaking to Ros made him feel a bit better about the whole thing. "About George-"

"If you see him again, do me a favor, Harry. Make him hit you, instead. That way we'll have a complaining witness."

That was one solution to the problem, at least. "I'll do my best. Thank you, Ros."

"Have a good night, Harry," she said, and without waiting for an answer, she hung up.

* * *

Somehow Harry resisted the urge to barge right up to Ruth's door and demand to speak with her the moment he saw her come home. Instead he watched the lights flick on inside and, satisfied that she was home safe and sound, he set about making himself something to eat. He had determined to follow Ros's advice, and apologize to Ruth the very next morning. He had also resolved to ask her to have a meal with him, bugger the bad timing and all. Dwelling on her possible response left him apprehensive, to say the least, but he was no longer content to pretend that he wasn't interested in anything more than a casual acquaintance with Ruth. He wanted to know her; wanted to know how she liked her tea, and where she had gone to university, and how she felt about pop music and Jane Austen and Charlie Chaplin films, he wanted to know if she sang in the shower and what she looked like when she came and if she'd stay and let him make her breakfast the next morning. He wanted everything, and he felt the time had come to let her know it.

* * *

The next morning, Zoe at the café gave him his breakfast for free. When he tried to insist that he pay for it, she simply shook her head. "Everyone knows," she said, leaning towards him and whispering conspiratorially. "About what happened yesterday. It's good that you were there for her. Just say thank you, and make sure you pay tomorrow," she added with a smile. Harry stared at her dumbfounded for a moment, still clutching a wad of bills in his hand, but finally his brain caught up with him.

"Thank you," he said, tucking the money back in his wallet.

"Have a good day, Harry," Zoe said warmly.

"And you," he said, turning on his heel to make his way out into the morning sunlight.

By the time he reached Something Wonderful, Ruth was nowhere in sight, but the front door was propped open and the shelves out front were bursting with bright flowers. He stepped inside the shop, butterflies fluttering in his stomach in a way they hadn't since he was a boy. Harry Pearce had never had any difficulty asking a woman on a date, but Ruth wasn't just any woman, and he found he was actually quite nervous.

He found her behind the counter, and though she didn't look up as he approached, she did sigh and slump her shoulders in a manner that seemed to indicate she knew exactly who had just entered her shop.

"Good morning, Ruth," he said, keeping his voice low and warm, willing her to look at him.

She didn't. "I've got a lot on today, Harry," she said, not raising her gaze from the countertop. "I don't have time to do… this, just now."

"I just came by to say I'm sorry, for yesterday."

That got her attention. She straightened slightly as her eyes snapped up to his face and her fingers tightened around the stack of roses she was holding. Harry noted with some relief that she was wearing a pair of faded leather work gloves; he hadn't forgotten the sight of her bloody hands the day before. The cut on her lip was still plainly visible, but the mark on her cheek had faded, barely noticeable beneath her makeup and her natural, nearly permanent blush.

"I think I may have given you the wrong impression of…my intentions, such as they are." The words felt stilted and wrong, even as he said them, but he couldn't come up with any other way to phrase it. The corner of her mouth ticked up in an almost-smile, and that gave him hope. "To be perfectly honest, I came round the shop yesterday with the sole purpose of…of," he stuttered a little, and he could hardly believe how poorly he was handling this, but he had to soldier on, and so he continued in a rush, "of asking you if you would like to have dinner with me, sometime."

All traces of that almost-smile vanished, only to be replaced by an expression that could best be described as thunderous.

"Harry, I told you yesterday, I don't like pity," she said sharply, turning her attention back to the roses and a small, very dangerous looking pair of pruning shears on the counter before her.

"For God's sake Ruth, don't be such a stubborn old mule."

He regretted it the instant the words left his lips, but to his surprise, and his delight, she dropped the shears with a clatter and stared at him, smiling in an adorably outraged sort of way.

" _Mule_?" she repeated incredulously.

"Ruth, I would like, very much, to have dinner with you, and I've been waiting for weeks to ask you, and I most certainly do _not_ pity you."

"Oh," she said faintly, her ire disappearing as she looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and seemed to see for the first time that he was completely serious. "Oh," she said again, softer this time. She stared at her hands, gloved fingers twisting and twisting around the stems of the roses.

How long was one supposed to wait for an answer in this sort of situation? He didn't want to pressure her, but he desperately wanted an answer.

"Ruth," he ventured nervously, uncertain if now was the time to press, but she rewarded him with a timid smile.

"I'd love to, Harry," she told him.

He beamed at her. "That's good," he said, a bit lamely.

"I do have one request, though," she said, still fiddling absently with the roses.

"What's that?" he asked, feeling the nerves return. She'd finally said yes, he was finally going to spend time with her outside the shop, away from everything, but he couldn't help but worry about what she was going to say next.

"I'd love to have dinner with you, but, please, just not in the village. Everyone here always knows what everyone else is doing and I absolutely hate it. I hate the gossip."

Harry made a mental note to never, ever tell her about the free breakfast Zoe had given him.

"I have been known to cook, Ruth," he said before he could think better of it, and he groaned inwardly as he saw her raise an eyebrow at him.

"That's a bit…presumptuous," she said, and he couldn't be sure, but he thought she might have been teasing him.

"Ruth-"

"I'm kidding, Harry. A home-cooked meal would be lovely. I can barely manage pasta on my own."

Harry was smiling again. He realized, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he had smiled more in the last five weeks than he had in the last five years combined, and if he were being honest with himself, it was all thanks to a certain pretty florist who was currently looking at him with the sort of affection that had not been directed his way in quite a long while.

"Excellent," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Friday night?"

She nodded, cheeks reddening slightly. "That sounds wonderful. But, Harry, you do realize, Friday night is _tomorrow_ night?"

He hadn't actually, and that surprised him. Despite the general lack of definition between one day and the next, now that he was retired, he was usually very good about keeping up with that sort of thing, if for no other reason than that Something Wonderful was closed on Sundays.

"Is that a problem?" he asked.

"No," she said.


	8. Chapter 8

Friday morning dawned bright and cheery, and Harry Pearce woke with a smile on his face. Ruth was coming round to his for dinner tonight, and that thought alone was enough to quell any doubts that remained to him. The house was spotless, and the front garden had been stripped bare; Ruth's friend was coming by on Saturday morning with a load of mulch for him, and she was planning to set aside a stockpile of seeds and tiny little flowers for him to pick up on Saturday afternoon, to be planted on Sunday, if the weather held. He'd decided to do everything he could to keep her away from the back garden, not wanting her to know just how bad it was. He didn't want her to think too poorly of him.

He had quite a bit to do before she came over; for one thing, he needed to find out when to expect her. They hadn't quite settled that the day before, because only a moment after she'd accepted his invitation Danny had come bustling into the shop, fishing about for information as he had his own dinner-date planned for that same evening. Harry didn't begrudge him that; in fact, he found himself wishing that there was someone he could talk to about Ruth, someone who could smile reassuringly at him and tell him exactly what he needed to say. But he remembered what she'd told him about not wanting everyone to know, about how much she hated the gossip, and so he intended to keep their little date to himself.

That was the plan for this morning, then; he needed to have a chat with Ruth, and a trip to the supermarket was in order, and he also needed to track down Sam. He wanted to prepare a little surprise for Ruth, and he felt that the blonde girl would likely be his most promising ally. He wouldn't tell her about dinner, he would simply ask for her help, and let her draw her own conclusions.

As he set off down the lane that morning, Harry Pearce was whistling happily to himself.

* * *

Zoe was all smiles when Harry walked into the café for his breakfast, and when she handed him his usual cup of tea, she made an obvious effort to draw his attention to the little diamond sparkling on her left ring finger.

"Something you want to tell me, then?" Harry asked, lifting a teasing eyebrow at her. Zoe was only a few years older than his own daughter, and she reminded him of Catherine in many ways. Every time he saw her, he thought that it might be time for him to ring Catherine, to apologize, and yet, he never did.

"Will's asked me to marry him!" Zoe said excitedly, and Harry couldn't help but smile at her happiness. Will and Zoe were engaged; Sam and Danny were finally, properly dating; he'd caught Adam and Fiona canoodling in the park yesterday while Wes played on a nearby swing set; even Ros was keeping Tariq busy, pedaling like a manic up and down the lane to Jo's house every other day with a basket full of flowers. He seemed to be absolutely surrounded by blissful couples, and while that sort of thing ordinarily set his teeth on edge, today he found himself feeling nothing but content, pleased to see the joy shared by all these people who had so easily infiltrated his life. He hoped he could share some of that happiness with Ruth, but he worried it was too early to even think such things.

"Congratulations, Zoe. May your marriage be a happy one."

If she thought his words stilted and formal, she didn't say a thing about it; instead she simply leaned over the counter and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you, Harry. Now go on, your table's ready and waiting. I'll have your sandwich for you in a few minutes."

"Actually, Zoe, I have a quick question, if you don't mind."

She raised her eyebrow at him, but he took that as a sign that he ought to continue.

"I know you're friendly with Sam, and I was wondering if you might be able to put me in touch with her today. I've a favor to ask her."

Zoe pursed her lips for a moment as if pondering whether she ought to tell him or not, and Harry wondered if she had perhaps gotten the wrong idea about his intentions where the Scottish girl was concerned.

"Sam works at the library on Friday mornings," she answered after a moment. "She'll be up there until lunch time."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Zoe," he said earnestly, before taking the newspaper she handed him and his tea and making his way out to his favorite table. He sat for a while with his eyes closed and his face turned towards the early morning sunshine. It was amazing, really, the effect a couple of days and a certain charming florist could have on his attitude.

* * *

Harry found Ruth outside the shop, as he expected. Her blouse was pink today, an usually bright color for her, but it brought out the semi-permanent blush in her cheeks, and he felt his heart soften when he saw her. She really was lovely, and for some unknown reason, she seemed to be genuinely interested in him.

"Good morning, Ruth," he said as he approached her, and she smiled warmly at him in return.

"Good morning, Harry," she answered, absently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before turning her attention back to her flowers, fiddling with them in a vaguely inattentive sort of way.

Harry wasn't sure how best to broach the subject of their plans for the evening, and so he simply asked her outright.

"What time can I expect you this evening?"

She smiled, and caught her lip between her teeth for a moment before replying.

"I usually close up around six," she said.

"So, maybe seven?" he asked hopefully. _God_ but he felt like a schoolboy, like he was bouncing up and down on his toes, begging for a sweet.

She grinned at his enthusiasm. "Seven thirty. Give me time to feed Fidget and get myself cleaned up."

"Wonderful," he said, tucking his hands in his pockets. He wasn't sure what to say to her next; usually they chatted quietly about the weather first, or her flowers, or something small and inconsequential like that just to get the ball rolling. He'd started them off today with talk of dinner-dates, and now all he could think about was the fact that in a few short hours he'd have Ruth all to himself, in his home, away from prying eyes. The possibilities that opportunity might afford him clouded his mind, and made small talk all but impossible for him, at the moment.

For her part, Ruth seemed just as flustered. She wouldn't meet his gaze, and for an instant he fancied he saw her hands trembling. That comforted him somewhat, the thought that she might be almost as nervous as he was.

"What are we having?" she asked after a few more moments of excruciating silence. Harry just grinned roguishly at her.

"Oh, I can't tell you that. It's a surprise."

He could just see the little smile dancing around her lips. "Is that wise? What if I don't like it?" she asked in a playful tone. Harry quite enjoyed it when she teased him lightly like this; so much of his life had been spent in darkness, surrounded by the worst of human nature. From what he knew about her, Ruth had seen her fair share of horrors, and the fact that she could still be this gentle, this kind, gave him hope.

"You don't have any allergies, do you? Not a vegetarian or anything like that?" he responded.

She shook her head, still smiling, still refusing to meet his gaze.

"Well then, in that case, you'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

Despite having lived in the village for well over a month now, Harry had not yet ventured up to the library. Ruth had given him somewhat sketchy directions a few weeks prior, when he had expressed a desire to find a new book to occupy his evening hours. It wasn't very far; the village was small, and fairly contained. The walk from Something Wonderful to the library took him less than a quarter of an hour, and he found he wasn't even out of breath by the time he opened the door and stepped inside, a fact for which he was very thankful. It wouldn't do to be sweaty and gasping when he met with Sam.

As luck would have it she was working behind the front desk, and he was saved the ordeal of having to scour the building for her.

"Good morning, Sam," he said quietly as he approached her, mindful of their current location.

She looked up at him sharply, clearly startled, but it passed quickly, and she offered him a small smile.

"Good morning, Harry," she said cheerily. "In the market for a new book? Please don't tell me you like detective stories," she added in a familiar sort of tone that caught him off guard. He'd only spoken to her a handful of times, but he was suddenly very aware of the fact that the girl spent a great deal of time alone with Ruth. What had Ruth told her about him? He found the prospect somewhat alarming.

"I've actually come to see you," he told her, and for the second time that morning he found himself on the receiving end of a young woman's skeptically raised eyebrow.

"Have you?" she asked incredulously.

Harry soldiered on. "I want to arrange a little surprise for Ruth, and I could really use your help."

She clapped her hands together in a sudden show of glee. "Oh, Harry, I'd love to help." She leaned towards him, obviously eager to hear more.

"I want to give her some flowers, you see," Harry started, but Sam rolled her eyes at that and leaned back again, shaking her head slightly.

"What? Do you think that's a bad idea?" The suggestion of buying flowers for a woman had never before been met with such obvious disdain. Harry thought it was quite the romantic touch, and he was bewildered by her reaction.

"Harry," Sam spoke to him slowly, as if he were a dimwitted child, "Ruth spends every day surrounded by flowers. She's the only florist in town. Do you really want to surprise her with something you bought from her own shop?"

The thought had occurred to him, but he still firmly believed that flowers were the right choice.

"Well, that's the thing. She loves flowers. But when was the last time someone _gave_ them to her _?_ I imagine she spends all day helping people give flowers to the ones they love, and no one ever gives her any, because they think she's had enough. I thought it might be…nice."

Sam considered him for a long moment. "I suppose that's true," she conceded at last. "But you can't very well walk into the shop and pick up a bouquet for her. Then it wouldn't be a surprise."

Harry smiled. "That's where you come in."

She grinned at him mischievously. "Consider it done. I'm working this afternoon anyway, I can put something together for you. I'll have Tariq run the delivery out to you, so she never needs to know a thing."

"I really appreciate it, Sam," he told her, reaching for his wallet and discretely passing her a wad of bills.

Her eyes widened. "Harry, flowers are expensive but they're not _that_ expensive."

"These flowers have to be special," he told her, pressing the money into her hands. "Make it as nice as you can, and if there's any change left, you can send it back with Tariq."

"You really like her, don't you?" Sam asked softly, tucking the money into the pocket of her jeans, and Harry just stared at her for a moment, utterly lost for words.

"I only meant," she rushed on, as if she could see just how uncomfortable she'd suddenly made him, "No one's gone to this much trouble for Ruth since…well, to be honest, no one ever has. She's a good friend, and I-"

"I do like her, very much," Harry interrupted, surprising even himself with his honesty. "She deserves to be treated well."

"Yes, she does," Sam told him. "I'll take care of it. They'll be beautiful, I promise."

"Thank you, Sam," he said, and made to leave. He was halfway to the door when another question occurred to him, and he turned on the spot. He wasn't that far from the desk, and barely had to raise his voice as he asked, "White wine, or red?"

"White," came the answer. "Definitely white."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: The long awaited dinner-date is finally upon us! I would like to apologize for any grammatical mistakes; I wanted to go ahead and post this tonight, but I am currently somewhere between a lot to very drunk, and am thus in no condition to do any sort of editing.**

* * *

There were two bottles of white wine chilling in the refrigerator, two thin, breadcrumb-crusted fish fillets sizzling happily under the broiler, a pot of rice simmering merrily on the stove top, and a pan of assorted vegetables currently roasting under Harry's watchful eye. There was a small tumbler of whiskey close at hand, from which Harry took the occasional fortifying sip as he watched the clock and the vegetables with equal anxiety. It was now 7:35, and so far, there had been no sign of Ruth. Harry had been with enough women over the years to know that this tardiness was not necessarily a sign that she wasn't coming; most likely she was en route, but had been waylaid by the mysterious rituals women undergo prior to first dates. Nonetheless, her absence left him feeling fretful. What if she _had_ changed her mind? She'd been through a lot, in the last three days, and perhaps now simply wasn't the best time for him to push her. So he worried, and drank, and stirred the vegetables, and waited.

Mercifully, the doorbell rang only a few minutes later, just as he was sliding the vegetables out of their pan and into a small stoneware serving bowl. This task completed, he carefully wiped his hands on a nearby hand towel, threw back the last of his whiskey, and went to open the door.

He was struck dumb by the sight of her.

Ruth wore a simple navy dress, the neckline low but not daringly so, her pearl necklace glimmering against her pale skin. The fabric of the dress was soft, and clung to her frame in a most appealing manner. The cut on her lip was healing, but still plainly visible, and he resolutely kept his gaze away from it, determined not to dwell on what had happened on Wednesday. Her dark hair fell in a soft frame around her gentle face, and she was smiling at him nervously.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she said breathlessly, holding out a bottle of wine for him to take. He accepted it, struggling to dislodge his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"Don't be," he managed finally. "You're worth the wait."

He hadn't meant to be quite so forward, but she was so beautiful, and she was _here,_ in his home, with a bottle of wine, prepared to spend the evening with him. He couldn't quite believe his luck.

She blushed, dropping her gaze bashfully to the toes of her shoes. She wore a pair of silver sandals, and Harry realized as he stepped aside to allow her entry that this was the first time he'd ever seen her in something other than boots. The sandals were flat, which made her seem even smaller than usual, and Harry couldn't help but be reminded of how easily she fit within the circle of his arms. He had to fight the urge to draw her to him, to rest his chin against the top of her head and breathe her in, to feel her warm heart beating next to his own. The desire she inspired in him never failed to surprise him.

"It smells heavenly," she said as he led her into the kitchen, and Harry beamed at her. He hadn't had much cause to cook, back in London, and while he had indulged his culinary passion some over the last few weeks here in the cottage, it was a pleasure to have someone to share the fruits of his labor with.

"Fish ok?" he asked, depositing the bottle she'd handed him in the refrigerator, and pulling out one of the bottles he'd left to chill.

She nodded, turning in a small, slow circle to take in the kitchen. It was a beautiful room, full of windows to let in the summer sunlight, the backsplashes behind the countertops layered in a blue tile mosaic. Harry had taken a toothbrush to the tiles during his first week here, scrubbing and scrubbing until they gleamed. He'd not spent much time on decorating this particular room, but restoring the heavy kitchen table and chairs had been an arduous task, and he was quite proud of the results.

"You've done a wonderful job in here, Harry," she said softly, running her fingers across the smooth grain of the tabletop. He wondered if she'd been inside the cottage before, if she knew just how badly off the place had been when he arrived, but he decided not to ask.

"It took quite a lot of time, but I'm rather pleased with how it's all turned out," he told her as he poured two glasses of wine. The food was ready, but there was something he wanted to do before they sat down to eat.

As he handed her a glass, he smiled and said, "I have something for you. Wait right here."

She raised an eyebrow at him (funny how the women in this village kept doing that to him), but did as she was told, taking a sip of wine and leaning up against the table as he made his retreat.

Tariq had delivered the flowers earlier that afternoon, a beautiful arrangement of various delicate, brightly colored blooms Harry couldn't put a name to. There wasn't a rose in sight, but he trusted Sam's judgment. He'd stashed them in a cupboard under the stairs, and his heart was hammering in his chest as he went to retrieve them. What if she didn't like them? What if Sam was right, and flowers were the wrong choice for her? Would she think him simple, thoughtless, for choosing such an obvious gift?

It was too late now, however, so he made his way back to the kitchen holding the flowers behind his back, trusting his own bulk to block them from view.

The sight of Ruth waiting for him did nothing to calm his nerves; she was so lovely, so warm and gentle, and he wasn't sure what she was doing, spending her Friday evening with a grumpy bugger like him.

"I wanted to say thank you," he began a bit awkwardly, "for being so kind to me, since I first arrived here. These are for you."

With a flourish, he pulled the flowers out from behind his back, and held them out to her.

"Oh, Harry," she gasped, depositing her wine glass on the table before reaching out to take the bouquet, holding them close to her face and breathing in their light scent with a delighted smile on her face. "They're gorgeous! How did you- where did you get them?"

She was positively glowing, staring at the blossoms in her hand, and Harry felt relief wash over him in waves.

"I have my ways," he answered drily. He didn't want to go into the particulars of how Sam had spent the afternoon putting the flowers aside one by one while Ruth wasn't looking, before sending Tariq up to his cottage under the pretext of a delivery for Fiona. He didn't think Ruth would appreciate his having involved the pair of them, and decided a bit of mystery might be for the best.

She was still beaming at him, and with one hand cradling the flowers she reached out to place the other on his arm, warm and soft. "Thank you," she said earnestly, before leaning across the space between them to kiss him on the cheek. She withdrew quickly, her face flushed and her eyes downcast as if she were embarrassed by the sudden display of affection; for his part, Harry remained rooted to the spot, feeling vaguely like he'd been struck by lightning.

"No one's ever given me flowers before," she murmured softly, her eyes focused on the floor.

He didn't really know what to say to that. He wanted to pull her into his arms, wanted to kiss her; wanted to buy her flowers every day, if it meant she'd smile at him like she had a moment before. Slow and steady was the way to go here, though, so he only smiled, and walked across the kitchen to grab the simple glass vase he'd prepared for them.

"Here," he said quietly as he made his way back to her, watching as she carefully tucked the flowers into the vase. He set them in the center of the table, where they provided a pleasant splash of color against the white plates all ready and waiting for dinner.

"Shall we eat?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"Everything's ready; you just sit right there, and I'll bring it all over to you."

Ruth did as requested, folding herself neatly into one of the heavy chairs he'd spent hours sanding and staining. She looked at home, there at his table, her fingers fiddling absently with the silverware as he carried the food over to her.

* * *

"Harry, you can't be serious," she cried, a hand hovering over her mouth as she tried to stifle a giggle. They had finished their meal and the first bottle of wine, and were lingering around the table as they set about polishing off the second.

"I'm completely serious," he insisted, trying desperately to keep a straight face. "I was stood there with my trousers round my ankles and a hammer in my hand, and the poor bloke was so confused about the whole thing he just sat down on the grass and waited for my backup to arrive."

She'd asked him to tell her the most memorable thing he'd seen during his years as a detective, and, rather than raise the specter of maimed bodies and drug overdoses at dinner, he had settled for telling her the funniest story he could recall from his early days as a young officer.

"What happened to the dog?" she asked, still chuckling.

"I brought him home for my daughter," Harry answered without thinking.

Ruth grew very still, and he realized that he had not once over the course of their acquaintance brought up the issue of his children.

"Her name is Catherine," he said quietly. "She'll be twenty-eight this year. We don't speak much, these days."

"Oh, Harry," she sighed, leaning back in her chair and running her fingers through her hair.

"It's entirely my fault," he said honestly, staring into his wine glass. "I didn't handle things well, after the divorce. There was a big scene at my son's birthday party-" he caught her concerned look and continued, determined not to hide the truth from her, however damning it might be, "and there's no one to blame but me for how that turned out. My son, Graham, and I haven't spoken in nearly ten years."

"It must be…painful for you, not being in their lives," she said softly, but she was refusing to look him in the eye. Her confidence had grown over the course of their dinner, as she talked about the shop, and her friends, and a little bit about her time at university- she'd gone to Oxford, but never finished, having left to marry George and open the flower shop instead. Harry had prudently salvaged that moment by steering the conversation away from George and back to his own days at Oxford, and they'd had a wonderful time comparing their experiences there. He wasn't sure he could save the day again, however; he could think of no way to make light of his strained relationship with his children, and she was once again closing herself away from him, retreating behind her wine glass.

"I've thought a great deal over the last few weeks about trying to mend fences between us," he told her, "I'm just not sure that they would welcome any sort of contact from me. Even before the…incident, I was never around much. I was always working."

"You should at least try, Harry," she told him, her tone a bit stern. "You're their father and it isn't fair to deny them your presence in their lives over hurt feelings or wounded pride. I'd give anything to have another chance to speak with my father."

Ros's words came back to him; _what you have to understand about Ruth is, she's had a really hard time of it. Not just with George. With her parents, and her brother, and everything…_

"You're right, of course," he told her. "I will, Ruth. I think I've just been working my way up to it, but they deserve better, from me."

The declaration earned him a small, sad smile.

"That's good," she said.

He wanted to ask her about her family, wanted to find out more about her history, but he couldn't quite bring himself to continue down the morose road their conversation had taken. He desperately wanted to make her laugh again.

"Would you like to see the garden?" he asked impulsively as he topped off both their glasses with what remained of the second bottle of wine.

That seemed to be the right choice, because she was looking right at him and smiling again. He stood, holding his wine in one hand and offering the other to Ruth. She stared at him in surprise for a moment before copying him, her left hand clutching her wine while her right slid smoothly into his outstretched hand. He helped her to her feet, but couldn't quite bring himself to let her go. She smiled bashfully up at him, and he had to resist the temptation to kiss her; he was inordinately pleased that she was still here, that the revelation of his two grown children hadn't sent her running for the hills.

Hand-in-hand they made their way out the front door and into the garden, walking around the perimeter, following the path of the freshly painted white picket fence as Harry talked about how he planned to put her ideas into action and they sipped their wine, enjoying what remained of the day's warmth.

"I think it will be just perfect, Harry," she sighed happily as they came to a stop underneath a small, recently pruned tree. "Your garden just needs a bit of love and attention, and before you know it, it'll be beautiful."

"It's all thanks to you, really," he told her. "Without your help I would have been completely lost."

He wasn't just referring to the garden, either. Ruth had given him a reason to be excited when he woke up each morning, had given their neighbors a reason to speak to him, to include him, had made him feel as if this village could be his home, rather than just a stop-over on a journey to other places. Even during the times when it felt stifling, she'd managed to make him consider his life in a different light, a better light.

As always, she seemed to sense the undercurrent flowing beneath his words, seemed to know what he was trying to say when his own shortcomings prevented him from giving voice to his feelings. Her gaze was open, hopeful almost, and this time, he didn't stop himself. He leaned towards her slowly, noting the way she tilted her face towards him, closing her eyes at the last moment in a silent sign of approval.

His lips found hers, there in the gathering dark beneath the leaves of that one lone tree. The kiss was soft and light, the merest brushing of lips; once twice, three times. Her right hand was still wrapped in his left, their free hands still holding their now-empty wine glasses. He was tempted to throw his glass on the ground, and pull her closer to him, but she slipped away from him before he could.

"I think maybe I should go," she said tentatively, taking a step back from him and twisting the stem of her empty glass round and round between her fingers.

"You don't have to," he said, speaking softly, not wanting to scare her, but desperately wanting to stop her leaving. He didn't understand _why_ , why she felt this need to run right when everything had been going so well. She'd wanted to kiss him, he was sure; she'd responded to him, almost melted against him for an instant before pulling away. "We've got a whole bottle of wine left." He hoped she understood his intentions, that he wasn't trying to drag her back inside for some salacious purpose, that he just wanted to spend more time in her company.

"I… I've had a really good time with you tonight, Harry," she said, not moving any closer to him, but holding out her glass for him to take. He accepted it with a heavy heart, his hands dropping to his sides in a defeated sort of way.

"So have I, Ruth," he told her honestly. "I'd like to have dinner with you again- that is, if you'd like to."

She nodded, biting her lip just a little, stilling the anxious twisting of her hands for just a moment.

"I would like that, very much," she answered, and a tiny flicker of hope ignited in his chest.

They stood together for a moment longer, eyes searching each other's faces, both of them looking for the answer to a question they were too scared to ask.

"Bye then," she said finally.

"Good bye, Ruth," he answered.

She turned and walked away from him, wrapping her arms around her waist as if she were cold, despite the warmth of the night. Harry watched her go, feeling utterly lost.


	10. Chapter 10

When Harry woke on Saturday morning, he stayed in bed for a time, mulling over the events of the night before. Ruth's smile as she saw the flowers, and her frown when he told her of his children. The softness of her lips when he kissed her, and the sadness in her eyes when she turned away. The sound of her voice as she said "I should go," and the hope that filled him when she said she'd like to see him again. How was it possible, he wondered, that they could go through so many ups and downs over the course of one evening? He knew he needed to ask her out again, properly; maybe offer to take her to a nice restaurant in the city. He'd rather have her round to his again, but he thought a restaurant might be nice, and might put her more at ease. Maybe the knowledge that his bed was so close at hand had made her as nervous last night as it had made him.

As he showered and dressed for the day, Harry pondered the best way to ask her again. Would he seem too desperate if he asked her today? If he waited until Monday, would she spend the weekend worrying that he didn't really want to see her?

Harry hadn't pursued a real relationship with any woman since his divorce, and found he was a bit rusty when it came to the finer points of courtship. He knew what to do when faced with an attractive woman in a pub and a desire for quick release, but he was a bit flummoxed by his current situation. Sex he could do. Building trust and letting a woman into his heart was another matter entirely.

Jane had been easy, in the beginning. They'd simply fallen into bed together, and their relationship, such as it was, had grown from there. He hadn't told her about his plans to join the police force until after their wedding, mostly because they so rarely talked about their dreams, their fears, or their feelings. He and Jane had never been good at talking, and all he had to show for the years he'd invested in that relationship was an empty cottage and two children who refused to speak to him.

He wanted more with Ruth. He wanted to talk, wanted to listen, wanted to share his life with her. He hadn't gotten around to telling her about his plans to travel yet, but he wanted to, and that desire to be close to her, not just physically but emotionally as well, left him utterly confused.

He walked into the village, smiled at Zoe, and took his tea and his newspaper outside, all the while thinking of Ruth.

There was still the issue of George to be dealt with as well, he realized as he stared grimly at his newspaper. The man had to be stopped; Harry couldn't bear the thought of what might happen if he showed up in the village again.

But what could he do? He'd known Ruth just over a month, and Ros had spent years trying to put a stop to George's assaults. What could he hope to do that she hadn't tried already?

Ros's words came back to him; _make him hit you, instead._ If only it were that simple.

All around him the high street came to life as the shops opened and his fellow early risers began bustling about. For a brief moment Harry pondered the change in his circumstances; his life had shrunk down around him, and there were still times when the siren song of London and the life he'd led there nearly drove him mad with wishing he could return. There was no Ruth in London, though, no gentle smiles for Harry the copper, Harry the murderer, Harry the disgrace.

He sighed, chided himself for the despondent turn his thoughts had taken, and gathered up his things to go inside and pay Zoe for his breakfast.

* * *

As Harry made his way back down Center Street, he found Sam standing out front of Something Wonderful with a large cluster of lilies in her hand and a serious expression on her face.

"Good morning, Sam," he said with forced enthusiasm; he'd been hoping to have a moment to speak to Ruth alone, after their dinner date the night before, and he wasn't looking forward to tip-toeing around the Scottish girl.

"Good morning, Harry," she answered brightly, dropping the lilies haphazardly on the nearest shelf and wiping her hands on her apron in a gesture so reminiscent of Ruth that it brought a smile to his lips. "How did last night go?"

"Last night?" Harry repeated, perplexed and slightly alarmed. How had she found out about their dinner? Had Ruth mentioned something? Or worse, had someone else had told her? His mind spun into overdrive as he began to worry about Ruth and her fear of gossip. The last thing he needed was for someone to say the wrong thing, and ruin their relationship before it had ever really even begun.

"The flowers," Sam prompted with a little smirk that seemed to suggest she thought him addle-minded.

"Oh, right, yes, the flowers, of course," Harry stammered, wondering where all his worldly composure had gone. "She absolutely loved them, Sam. You did brilliantly. I can't thank you enough." As he spoke he realized that Ruth had left the flowers behind in her haste the night before. The flowers were meant for her; he'd need to find some way to return them.

Sam beamed at him. "Oh, I'm so glad she liked them! That's wonderful." Harry's eyes had drifted towards the shop, trying to locate Ruth amid the maze of blooms, and Sam, noticing, gave a little shake of her head. "She's not in today, poor love. Says she feels right awful. I can't remember the last time she took a day off, so I told her to stay in bed with Fidget and focus on getting well. I can run things here for a day."

Harry nodded, feeling his nerves return. Ruth wasn't feeling well? She'd seemed fine, the night before; a little anxious, perhaps, but certainly not ill. They'd had two bottles of wine between them, over the course of a few hours, but Harry had drunk the lion's share of the wine himself; surely she wasn't hungover.

It took him a moment to realize that Sam was laughing at him. His confusion must have shown on his face, because she took pity on him and explained between chuckles, "Oh, you should see your face, Harry. You look like a little boy who's just been told he can't have a sweet."

"I'm just concerned for her, that's all," Harry said stiffly. "I hate to hear she's not feeling well."

Sam just hummed and turned her attention back to the lilies. "Well, it's not as if you don't know where she lives," the blonde girl said with a sly smile. "If you're so worried about her, you could always check in. See if she needs some soup, or something."

Harry still wasn't used to being teased by the women of this village. Sam, Zoe, Jo, even Fiona Carter, whom he had only met on one or two occasions; they all seemed to get the same knowing sort of expression on their faces whenever he found himself in their vicinity.

"I might do just that," he said in what he hoped was a nonchalant sort of way. He really did want to return the flowers to her; perhaps he could do that and check in on her as well. "She ought to have someone looking out for her."

"We agree on that, at least," Sam muttered under her breath.

He felt the time had come for him to extract himself from this conversation, before he said something Ruth wouldn't like, and so he left with Sam with warm wishes for the rest of her day, and meandered on down the lane towards his cottage.

* * *

Ruth had arranged for her friend Dimitri to come by at nine o'clock with a load of mulch for Harry's front garden, and the young man turned up five minutes early with a smile on his face. He had a firm handshake and an honest sort of face that Harry immediately took a liking to.

"Ruth said you'll be wanting me to spread it as well," Dimitri told him, surveying the garden with a professional, calculating sort of look.

"If it's not too much trouble," Harry said, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the topic at hand, and not the woman currently convalescing in the cottage across the way.

Dimitri shrugged. "No trouble at all. Couple of hours, and I'll have the whole thing sorted." Harry reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet, but Dimitri shook his head. "You've already paid for the mulch; you can pay for the work when it's finished."

"Right, thank you," Harry said. He stood there for a moment feeling a bit awkward as he watched Dimitri retrieve a shovel from his truck and set about the business of transferring the mulch from his trailer to the bare flowerbeds. "I'll just get out of your hair, shall I?" Harry said finally.

"Yeah, yeah, do whatever you need to do; I've got water and everything in the truck, so don't feel like you need to stick around on my account. If you come back by around lunchtime, I should be finished."

Harry thanked him for his trouble and made his way back into the house. Once inside, his eyes fell on the flowers still sitting in their vase on the kitchen table, and he decided that now was as good a time as any. He scooped them up, cradling the vase carefully in his hands, and made a beeline for Ruth's door, hoping Dimitri wasn't paying too much attention. Harry didn't really want to explain what he was doing.

His feet carried him quickly up her walk and onto her low wooden porch. He'd rung the bell before he had a chance to think better of it, and he stood there with his hands wrapped around the vase, wondering what on earth he was going to say to her when she came to the door.

In the few moments it took for her to appear he had gathered his thoughts somewhat, but all the words he wanted to say to her vanished in an instant as she pulled the door open and he found himself once again face to face with Ruth.

She looked adorably tousled this morning, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and her soft grey t-shirt wrinkled as if she'd just been sleeping. She wore a pair of black jogging bottoms (though Harry had never once seen her do anything even remotely resembling jogging) and her feet were ensconced in a pair of fluffy pink slippers. She made a noise that was very nearly a squeak when she saw him.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, blushing just a little. "What on earth-"

"Sam told me you were ill, and I just wanted to check and see if there's anything you needed," he told her in what he hoped was a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. "And, of course, I wanted to return these," he said, holding out the vase.

"Right," she said slowly, as if she didn't quite believe him. She took the flowers from him, her expression a mystery. "Come in, please." She stepped aside, and Harry passed by her, walking into her house for the very first (and, he hoped, not the last) time. He tried to take it all in at once; the pile of mismatched blankets and pillows on the sofa where she'd obviously been resting, the bookshelves that seemed to take up every available inch of wall space in the sitting room, the soft sounds of music coming from somewhere and the faded green paint on the walls in her foyer.

"I was just about to make myself some tea," she said, though Harry was fairly certain she hadn't been just about to do anything of the sort. "Would you like a cup?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," Harry said politely, following her down the little hallway towards the kitchen. He got a better view of the sitting room as they passed it, and realized that the music he heard was actually coming from the television. An old film was playing, and something about the images on the screen and the gentle music tugged at his memory. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he felt as if he should know it, somehow.

She kept her back to him as she deposited the vase on the table, busying herself with starting the electric kettle and pulling two somewhat battered mugs down from a cupboard.

"Milk or sugar?" she asked, still not looking at him.

"A bit of both, please," he responded.

She nodded, and continued the business of setting out things for their tea. Harry took the opportunity to study the kitchen while her attention was elsewhere; it was small and somewhat cluttered, as was the rest of the house it would seem, but it was very Ruth. Brightly colored tea towels and bowls of fruit and even what appeared to be a take away container (from the only nice restaurant in the village) covered the countertops, and he couldn't help but notice that the handles of the knives in the wooden block beside the sink didn't match. The chairs around her little kitchen table didn't match either, but they all had a comfortable, well-worn look to them. As Harry took in his surroundings he felt something tugging at his ankle, and he looked down to find Fidget winding himself around his feet. Harry felt a rush of affection for the little animal and bent down to pat him lightly; it was Fidget he had to thank for introducing him to Ruth in the first place, and he resolved to devise some way of slipping the little cat a treat at the first possible opportunity.

A few moments passed in companionable silence as Ruth prepared the tea and Harry stood in the kitchen petting her cat; Harry quite liked being here, in her wonderfully un-tidy cottage. Everything seemed very simple, all of a sudden; just a man and a woman, having tea in a kitchen in a little house by the sea, all their troubles forgotten in the blissful domesticity of the moment. The peaceful vision remained unbroken as she turned to him with two steaming mugs of tea in hand, and offered him one as they sat down at the table together. Fidget immediately abandoned Harry in favor of his mistress, hoping up into her lap and settling himself immediately for a nap.

"Shameless," Ruth chided him mildly, giving him a little scratch behind the ears as he purred happily and kneaded her leg. Harry felt a momentary irrational surge of jealousy at the affection in her voice.

"What film were you watching?" he asked curiously, having pondered it for several moments and still not come up with the answer. He took a sip of his tea; she'd taken the liberty of adding the milk and sugar herself, and she'd done a wonderful job. Perfect on the first try. He tried not to wonder about that too much.

She blushed slightly, running her fingers around the rim of her mug. " _The Red Shoes._ It's my favorite."

"Ah, yes, I thought I recognized the score," he said, relieved to finally have the answer. Interesting choice, as far as favorite films went. Harry couldn't say he had one particular favorite, having not had much time to indulge in film-watching over the years, but most of the titles he enjoyed had more to do with battles and spies and detective stories than love and dancing.

She didn't say anything else, but she kept glancing up at him as if she couldn't quite believe he was really there, sitting at her table, and Harry felt the need to explain his presence.

"I hope you're feeling better," he said, gauging her reaction carefully. She ducked her gaze away from him as she responded.

"Much better, now, but Sam tells me she's got everything in hand at the shop. I've been ordered to stay home." There was something in the way she refused to look him in the eye that seemed to indicate she wasn't telling him everything; not for the first time he wondered if she actually was ill, or if there was something else going on.

"I was quite sorry to have missed you this morning," Harry continued, watching her closely. No, he decided as he watched the play of emotions across her face, she definitely hadn't been ill. What had kept her away, then? Had she been trying to avoid him? Had something happened with George?

"I missed you, too," she murmured, and then jerked her eyes back up to his face as if she couldn't quite believe what she'd just said. "I mean, I'm sorry I wasn't there, to see you," she added quickly. "I've just been feeling a bit…out of sorts, this morning."

"That wouldn't be my fault, would it?" Harry asked kindly. He was desperately worried that he'd done something to upset her, that he was the reason she looked so lost, sitting there across the table from him.

"Oh Harry," she sighed, leaning back in her chair and clutching her mug with both hands. "What are we doing?"

"We're having tea," he answered slowly, utterly bewildered.

"I meant more, what are _you_ doing? Stopping by to see me every day, asking me round for dinner, giving me flowers, coming to my house this morning- what do you want?"

The question caught him quite unaware. He thought it was patently obvious what he wanted. And even if it wasn't, was she really so bothered by his attentions? Or, could it be, was she possibly even worse at this whole romance business than he was?

"I want to spend time with you, Ruth," he told her earnestly, willing her not to look away from him as she so often did. He very much wanted her full attention as he answered her question. "I quite enjoy your company, and I was rather hoping you enjoyed mine."

"Why?" she asked.

Coming from any other woman that question might have sounded vain. Had he heard it from anyone else, he might have thought she was fishing about for compliments, or teasing him, or bolstering her confidence, but this was _Ruth_ , and there was something so hopeless, so impossibly sad in her voice that Harry found himself desperate to show her, to prove to her just how lovely she really was.

"Because I think you're wonderful," he said before he had a chance to think better of it. "You're brilliant, and kind, and beautiful, and I'm honestly a bit confused as to why you would ever think otherwise."

She stared at him for a long moment, her grey eyes shining in the mid-morning sun streaming in through the windows off to her left. He could almost feel her thinking; it got like this between them, sometimes. He would say something, and she would take a long time to answer, mulling over his words and their implications, turning them round and round until she was satisfied. Finally, she leaned forward in her chair, set her mug down on the table, and reached out to grasp his hand in hers with a little smile on her face.

"I think you're wonderful, too," she said softly as her small, warm hand found its home wrapped inside his own. He cursed the table between them, because, in that moment, he very much wanted to kiss her.

"Have dinner with me again," he said, utterly captivated by the little creases around her mouth and the way her necklace glittered against her skin, by the lilt of her voice and the curve of her neck and the softness of her skin against his own.

"I'd love to, Harry," she said warmly; she still seemed a bit shy, but she wasn't looking away from him now, and he took that as a point in his favor.

"Tomorrow night?" he prompted, wondering if that was too soon and feeling as if it was much too far away.

"Tomorrow would be perfect," she answered. He watched, somewhat disappointed, as she carefully took her hand from his, gathered up her mug, and left the table. She crossed to the sink and deposited the mug there before turning back to face him, as if she needed a moment to herself, to gather the courage for what she was about to say next.

"Why don't you come here?" she asked. "Tomorrow, I mean. Come here, and I'll cook for you. Return the favor."

There was something in the way she was standing, putting space between them and holding herself rather tightly, that made Harry think perhaps Ruth was trying to indicate that it was time for him to go. He dreaded the thought of leaving her, even for a moment. He wanted to respect her wishes, though, and with that in mind, he rose, and, mug in hand, went to join her by the sink.

"That would be wonderful," he said, wondering absently when that word had come to feature so prominently in his vocabulary.

She was standing right beside him, warm and close and smiling up at him through her dark eyelashes, and he simply couldn't help himself. He reached for her, one hand coming to rest on the curve of her waist, and pulled her towards him. She moved with him like a dancer, lifting her hand to his chest, her palm sending shockwaves through him where she touched him just above his heart. He lowered his head towards her and she rose up to meet him, and as their lips connected he tried to pour all his bourgeoning feelings for her into their kiss. She tasted faintly of tea and smelled lightly of flowers, and he could feel her smiling against his lips. Without thinking about it too much he dragged the tip of his tongue against her lips, and was rewarded with a gentle sigh as she leaned a little bit closer against him and opened her mouth to him.

 _God_ , but she was perfect, filling up all his senses, returning his kiss with an equal ardor that left him breathless and hungry for more. Nothing else mattered in that moment; he was standing in Ruth's kitchen, holding her close, one of her hands on his chest and the other running gentle fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, her tongue in his mouth and his heart in her hands.

Eventually they were forced to break away, to take a moment to breathe, and Harry realized that he had pulled her flush against him, one hand still on her waist and the other gently cupping her cheek. She had a slightly dazed look on her face, and he imagined that he probably wore a similar expression. She always surprised him, his Ruth.

 _His._

"I should probably go," he said softly, wishing he didn't have to, but knowing that he did. That kiss was lovely, and perfect, and he desperately wanted to do it again, but he knew that now was not the time to rush her. She seemed to understand.

"Probably," she agreed, rising up to brush his lips with hers one last time before slipping out of his arms. "But I'll see you here tomorrow, for dinner," she added, and he smiled down at her for a moment.

"Absolutely," he told her.

They stood for a moment, simply staring at one another, a thousand thoughts running through each of their minds, neither willing to say a thing.

"Bye, then," she said finally.

"Good bye, Ruth," he answered, before turning and making his way back out of her house, smiling widely all the while.


	11. Chapter 11

As Harry left Ruth's cottage behind, he pulled his mobile from his pocket, and rang the shop phone at Something Wonderful. Ruth had given him the number early on in their acquaintance, though he'd had no reason to use it before now. He was supposed to pick up a large supply of flowers and seeds that afternoon, and he wanted to see if perhaps he could come and fetch it a bit early. Sam sounded as chipper as ever, telling him that his things were all ready and waiting for him, come any time. He stopped by his cottage and spoke to a sweaty, smiling Dimitri for a few minutes and then, satisfied that the mulching was going well, he climbed into his car and drove on down to the village.

As it was now mid-morning and a Saturday besides, the village's main thoroughfare was as alive with people as Harry had ever seen it. Everywhere he looked he saw familiar faces, some whose names he knew, some he didn't. The street was full of the sounds of cars and laughing children and friendly chatter, and shoppers wandered from storefront to storefront at a leisurely pace, enjoying the summer sunshine and the companionship of those around them. Harry found himself quite happy, in the midst of this most ordinary of scenes. He had kissed Ruth this morning, and would eat dinner with her tomorrow night, he would plant his flowers and bring his garden back to life. This place wasn't so bad, really.

There were a few customers milling about inside the shop, but Sam didn't seem particularly bothered by his deciding to pick up his things early.

"How is she then?" Sam asked as she finished ringing up his purchases, which consisted of a small box of various seeds, several trays of little flowers ready for planting, two green shrubs and, surprisingly, one fledgling Japanese maple in a pot. Harry didn't remember having decided on the maple, but if Ruth felt it should be included, he was more than happy to take it home with him.

"Oh, I think she'll be all right. She was just finishing a cup of tea when I left," Harry said half-truthfully. He didn't want Sam to know that Ruth had been feeling "out of sorts" because of him, or that she was now most likely feeling much, much better, for the exact same reason.

"Good of you to check in on her," Sam said as he handed her a wad of bills, payment for the profusion of plants on the countertop between them.

"Oh, it was no trouble at all. She's just across the way. What sort of neighbor would I be if I didn't look in on her?"

Sam just looked at him as if she didn't believe a word he was saying, and he shifted uncomfortably under her frank, knowing stare.

"Well, you're all set now, Harry," she said finally.

"Actually, Sam, I've just had a thought," he said impulsively.

* * *

By the time Harry arrived back at his cottage, Dimitri had perhaps half of the mulch spread, and was working happily to the sounds of some awful modern music blaring from a radio perched precariously on the roof of his truck. Harry dragged his plants out of the car and onto the porch, careful to sit them in the shade. He didn't want to stay outside and loom over Dimitri, giving the impression that he was trying to rush the young man along, but his pride would not allow him to go inside the house and simply wait for the work to be finished. Flying in the face of good sense, and utterly disregarding the protests of his dodgy knee, Harry asked Dimitri if he had a spare shovel. The young man gave him an incredulous sort of look but, seeing that Harry was quite serious, he eventually acquiesced. Feeling more than a bit ridiculous in his starched shirt and crisp trousers, Harry rolled up his sleeves and set about helping Dimitri spread the rest of the mulch.

It was hot, dull work, but Dimitri was a pleasant companion. To pass the time he told stories from his days in the SBS- only the humorous ones, Harry noted. Harry knew what that was like, knew how it felt to try to hold on to the good memories and not be drowned by the bad. In return Harry regaled him with tales from his own Army days. Dimitri talked a little about his girlfriend, Erin, and her daughter, Rosie, and Harry told him a few stories about his children when they were small. In just under two hours they had the whole lot finished, and Dimitri offered Harry a firm handshake, which he gladly accepted. It was strange, Harry thought as he watched Dimitri drive away, how quickly he had come to think of the people in this village as his friends. Perhaps, he mused, the difference was not in the quality of his neighbors, but in Harry himself. Now that he was no longer a detective, now that he no longer carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, now that he no longer let himself be ruled by guilt, it seemed that Harry Pearce had become a rather likeable fellow.

* * *

Harry limped into his kitchen in search of some lunch after Dimitri's departure. Now that he was alone, he could admit to himself that he had rather overdone it with his exertions in the garden. His dodgy knee protested violently every time he tried to bend it; he'd broken his leg badly, several years ago, during a particularly tense altercation with a drugs dealer. What little cartilage was left to him was tight and unyielding after two hours' mulching, and he grumbled to himself as he eased into his chair, sandwich in hand. Harry had been entertaining the idea of going back out into the garden after lunch to plant the flowers he'd brought home, but he knew now that he simply wasn't capable. He might not even be capable tomorrow, he mused, stretching his leg straight out under the table and wincing slightly. The flowers would keep in their little trays for a day or two, he knew, but he didn't fancy the idea of going off schedule. The schedule (which existed only in his mind) said he would plant the flowers on Sunday, and, dodgy knee or not, he intended to stick to it. Perhaps Ruth could help him; Something Wonderful was closed on Sundays.

Would that be too much, though? He wondered. Would Ruth want to spend the morning helping him in the garden, and even if she did, would she then still be willing to cook him dinner that night? The thought of spending an entire day with Ruth was quite appealing to Harry, and, given the way she'd responded to his kiss in her kitchen, he was beginning to think that perhaps spending time in his company was appealing to Ruth, as well. As impossible as that seemed.

While he ate his sandwich Harry thought a great deal about Ruth. He thought about how she'd told him she could barely manage pasta on her own, and then offered to cook him dinner. He hoped he wasn't putting her out; she had been the one to suggest he come round to hers, after all. He didn't much care if she served him nothing more than burned toast. Whatever she made for him, he would eat it and be happy, because it meant spending more time with her. He still had so many questions he wanted to ask her, so many things he wanted to learn about her.

As he pondered their next dinner date, his thoughts drifted back to their last, only the night before. The closest she'd come to talking about her family was the comment she'd made, about how she'd give anything to talk to her father one more time. Harry knew how that felt; his last conversation with his father had been a bitter shouting match, followed by years of silence until he got the call from a very apologetic solicitor, telling him his father had passed away. Harry very sincerely wished, to this day, that he had taken the time to make amends. There had never seemed to be enough time, back when he was in London. No time for his wife, no time for his father, no time for his children. Now, though, he felt as if he had too much time. Too much time to sit and ponder, on the mistakes he'd made, the people he'd disappointed, the lives he hadn't quite managed to save.

There had been a young woman, a few years ago, the much younger wife of a wealthy and very influential banker. There had been whisperings that said banker had been taking liberties with his wife's person, idle gossip that turned into something rather more sinister as the young lady in question was seen in public less and less. Towers had asked Harry to look into it, quietly. They didn't want a scandal, but if something untoward was going on, it needed to be handled, and quickly. Harry had gone round to the house, to speak to the wife while her husband was away on business.

Rebecca. That was her name. Rebecca.

Rebecca had been hesitant to let Harry in the door, but when she realized that her only choices were to either invite him in or carry out a rather unpleasant conversation through the letterbox, she had finally relented. She wore long sleeves, he remembered, even though it was high summer. The shades were all drawn and the house was oppressively hot, and still the young woman had wrapped her arms around herself and almost shivered, as she talked to him. No, her husband was not hitting her. No, he had never done anything to hurt her. No, she was fine, thank you very much. Everything about her was cold and sad and hard, from her strained voice to her big brown eyes. Make up caked on too heavy, answers to every question quick and concise and so well-rehearsed. Harry left that house certain of two things; one, that the banker was most definitely hurting his wife, and two, that she would never, ever admit it.

He'd gone round after round with Towers, arguing about how the young woman was in trouble, how they needed to do something, but Towers's only response had been that there was nothing they could do, without a complaining witness.

Rebecca died two days after she'd spoken to Harry. Apparently, when her husband came home from his business trip, a nosy neighbor had enquired about the gentleman who'd stopped by to talk to her, the one in the cheap suit who looked like a government man, and the banker had lost what little self control was left to him. If he concentrated, Harry could still picture the photograph that Towers had handed him afterward, could still see her face; what was left of it, at any rate.

Rebecca.

And now, Ruth.

Standing in that storeroom with her after George's departure, hearing her insist that nothing was wrong, saying _I fell_ like it wasn't the most cliché lie in the book, had felt to Harry like nothing so much as a very familiar nightmare. Seeing her like that had brought all those memories back to him, and he swore he wouldn't let Ruth meet the same fate as Rebecca. He wasn't a detective any more, didn't have to follow the rules of procedure, and he was damned if he was going to let anything bad happen to her ever again. The next time George came round, if indeed there was a next time, would be the last.

Harry heaved himself out of his chair with a groan, crossing the kitchen on creaky legs to drop his plate in the sink. He needed to get a hold himself, needed to keep his memories and his guilt from interfering with the here and now. As overprotective as he felt of Ruth, he knew she would not appreciate his meddling in her life. She was fiercely independent, was Ruth, and she was stubborn as a mule, to boot. He needed to deal with this the right way, needed to be kind and understanding, not proud and overbearing. He needed to show her that he had no interest in controlling her, in locking her away from the world. He'd begun to form another one of his infamous plans, as regarded the George situation, but he needed more time to put it into action.

And thus his thoughts returned once more to time, and the abundance of it he currently found himself saddled with. He dragged himself into the sitting room, not quite ready to attempt to climb the stairs and shower away the sweat and the dirt from his earlier foray into the garden.

With all this time on his hands, it seemed to Harry that he ought to be making the most of it. He'd been in this village for nearly two months, and though he had made a great deal of progress on the cottage and had met and befriended a lovely woman, there was one thing he'd promised himself he would do that he had not yet even attempted.

He had not called his daughter.

The conversation he'd had with Ruth the night before had reminded him that he'd been promising himself since the day he left London that he would call Catherine, and start to mend fences between the two of them. Jane was a lost cause, and happier with him out of her life as it was, and he had no way to reach out to his son, but his daughter had tried, over the years, to stay in touch. He received emails from her, once or twice a year, updating him on her career as an up and coming filmmaker. He'd snuck into a screening of one her documentaries a few years ago, watched her introduce the film and felt his heart nearly burst with pride as he saw how passionate and articulate she was. And like a coward, he had left before she ever caught sight of him.

He had no excuse not to call her, and so he fished his mobile out of his trouser pocket and dialed her number before his own insecurities could sabotage his attempt to reconnect with his oldest child.

As he listened to the endless ringing coming down the line, he wondered what he'd say to her. What could he say to her, to the woman who had grown from the child he'd abandoned? How could even begin to make up for years of absentee parenting, for all the heartaches he knew he'd caused her? Should he even try to explain that he and Jane were never any good for each other, that his children were better off with their bitter, angry mother and over-enthusiastic step-father than they ever would have been with their distant, duty-bound father? Did he even believe that, any more?

Still the phone rang, and he realized she wasn't going to pick up. Once more, twice more, and then-

" _Hello, this is Catherine. Sorry I'm not available at the moment, please leave a message and I'll get back to you when I can."_

There was a sharp beep. Harry cleared his throat.

"Hi, Catherine, it's dad," he said, heart thundering in his chest. "I just wanted to call, say hello, see how you're doing. I know it's been a while. If you could, call me back-" he left his number, and then faltered for a moment. "Bye, then," he said, not knowing what else to say, and hung up the phone.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.


	12. Chapter 12

Sunday morning brought with it very little sunshine, and Harry grumbled to himself as he went about his routine, muttering about the inconstancy of British weather and debating the merits of planting his garden when the sky threatened rain. As he stepped out the front door to start his morning walk to the café, he realized that though the cloud cover was heavy, the air carried with it none of the humidity one might expect before a summer rain. Perhaps he would be lucky, and the rain would hold off long enough for him to get his flowers in the ground. If it rained this afternoon, it would save him the trouble of watering the plants himself. Perhaps today wouldn't be so bad, after all.

The walk into the village loosened up his stiff knee, and by the time he arrived at his destination he found himself feeling almost human.

Zoe was behind the counter, as ever, smiling at him sleepily. There had been a couple of mornings, over the past few weeks, when Harry had entered to find a different young woman running the café, but it was almost always Zoe, and they had struck up an odd little friendship. He was glad to see her, and chatted with her for a moment while he waited for his sandwich.

"Did everything work out, with Sam?" Zoe asked him during a brief lull in their conversation.

Harry's stomach did an odd little flip, as he considered how best to answer her. Sam had promised not to tell anyone (except Tariq, of course) about the nature of the favor he'd asked her, and he trusted that she'd kept her word. Zoe obviously didn't know what his visit to the library had been about, and she was just as obviously burning up with curiosity. He needed to be careful, here.

"It did, thank you," he said eventually. "She was most helpful."

Zoe gave him a searching sort of look, clearly wondering what on earth was going on, and he wondered if he would be better off giving her more details, or less.

"Sam was helping me pick out a gift for someone," he said finally. "My daughter," he added on impulse, when he saw Zoe's eyes flit towards the window, and the shuttered flower shop down the way. "They're about the same age." He didn't like lying to her, and now that he'd done it, he felt just a little bit ashamed. Ruth wouldn't like that, he knew, but he wasn't sure how else to shut the conversation down, and he wanted to protect her privacy.

Zoe seemed satisfied with his answer. Before she could say anything else, he gathered up his newspaper and his cup of tea, gave her a gentle smile, and headed outside to his regular table.

* * *

Harry spent the morning planting his flowers under a threatening sky, muttering to himself all the while. His knee was not cooperating, and the simple business of kneeling in the freshly spread mulch proved to be almost too much for him. He persevered, however, because this was his plan and Harry Pearce believed firmly in sticking to his plans. People had remarked, on more than occasion, that he could be a rather stubborn fellow, and though he bristled at that particular descriptor, in moments like these even he could admit that there were times when he pushed beyond ordinary tenacity into the realm of sheer obstinacy.

The Japanese maple Ruth had set aside for him was the last chore on his list for the morning. Once all the other little shrubs and flowers and seeds were firmly ensconced in the soft, dark soil, he dragged himself to his feet and strolled around the perimeter of the garden, considering his options while trying to ignore the creaking of his joints. He wasn't entirely sure where to put the little tree, and Ruth had not discussed it with him. Perhaps, he mused as he walked, it should be saved for the back garden instead; there was a great deal more room out there, and the bright leaves would provide a pleasant splash of color. He completed his circuit of the garden without having reached any conclusions regarding the tree, and in the end decided to wait and ask Ruth's opinion on the matter before he made his decision.

And, he reminded himself as he gathered up his various gardening implements and carried them around to the shed in the back garden, he wouldn't have to wait very long to ask her.

* * *

At exactly half past seven Harry found himself standing on Ruth's doorstep, his heart pounding with an equal mix of anxiety and excitement. He rang the bell, and tried to think of something appropriately charming to say when she opened the door. Given that they were having dinner in her home, he had opted for rather casual clothing this evening. He wore a light blue shirt, the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows, and a pair of loose khaki trousers. As he waited for his hostess he experienced a last minute onset of doubt; perhaps he ought to have tried to dress up for her more. He should have worn a tie at least, he thought, fighting down the sudden urge to run back across the lane to fetch one.

He was saved from his own misgivings by Ruth's timely arrival. She had dressed casually as well, in dark blue jeans and a soft burgundy top, her ever-present necklace sparkling gently against her pale skin in a way that made him want to lean forward and press his lips against it. He resisted the temptation, choosing instead to return her easy smile and extend his hand, holding out the gift he'd brought for her.

"Oh, Harry," she sighed with a delighted little smile, reaching out to take the bouquet of lilies he'd bought from Sam the day before. She held them up to her nose, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes for a moment in pleasure.

"You're spoiling me," she accused as she opened her eyes to gaze at him affectionately over the brightly colored blooms.

"Perhaps I'm simply giving you the sort of treatment you deserve," he responded. "Beautiful flowers, for a beautiful woman."

"Charmer," she murmured, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against his cheek. Harry thought he could get used to those little kisses, and tried to keep his mind from jumping too far ahead.

"Come in," she added, stepping aside lightly and allowing him to pass once more into her home.

As he took in his surroundings Harry couldn't help but notice that Ruth had taken the time to straighten up somewhat; the clutter, while still present, was at least contained, and he found himself rather touched that she had gone to the effort.

"What made you decide on lilies?" she asked him as they made their way into the kitchen together.

Harry Pearce was not the sort of man who blushed. In his time he had waded through the very worst of human nature, had been unfaithful to his wife, had fought with hardened criminals, had broken some lives and ended others. He was not easily embarrassed, and he did not back down from hard conversations. In this moment, however, he could actually feel the tips of his ears going red.

On its surface, _what made you decide on lilies_ was a rather innocuous question. The answer, however, was a bit more emotionally fraught than Harry had anticipated. He had hoped the message would be received without his having to explain anything at all, but now that she'd asked, he couldn't very well keep his reasoning to himself, and he certainly couldn't lie.

"I had a conversation with Jo," he said, trying to approach the subject as obliquely as possible.

Ruth had been rummaging around in a cupboard, ostensibly searching for a vase for the flowers, but when she heard his reply she turned around to stare at him, the expression on her face very clearly saying _go on, then._

"Do you remember that day, when Ros came in the shop?" he asked, and he saw a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. She nodded, but did not return to her perusal of the cupboard. Instead she simply watched, waiting for him to continue, and so he did.

"She said they'd watched some film, and she simply had to buy lilies for Jo. I was curious about the film, so I asked Jo when I was at the supermarket the other day."

"And what did Jo say?" Ruth asked. There was a little smile hovering around her lips that told him she knew precisely what Jo had said, but was going to make him finish this conversation anyway. Harry didn't think she was being entirely fair, forcing him out on limb like this.

"Jo said it had to be lilies because there's a tradition of ascribing meaning to certain flowers; red roses for romantic love, white roses for innocence, and so on. And, at least according to the film, the lily means…"

His voice trailed off as he drew closer to the words he had hoped he wouldn't have to say; she had caught her lip between her teeth as she stood there, leaned up against the counter and clutching the lilies to her chest and he knew, he just _knew_ that she already knew what he was going to say. She was going to make him say it, though. Perhaps he had been wrong, and the flowers alone weren't enough; perhaps she needed to hear the words after all.

"The lily means _I dare you to love me_ ," he finished finally, keeping both his voice and his gaze steady as he spoke.

The silence that followed his pronouncement was all encompassing, but he refused to back down. He'd said it now, had conveyed his intentions with word and deed, and whatever happened next was entirely up to her. She was staring at the floor again, the way she did when things became too much between them and she needed a moment to gather her thoughts. This time, it was more than a moment; Ruth seemed frozen in a state of indecision, and Harry was mentally kicking himself for his presumption. He'd bought the flowers on an impulse, after standing in this kitchen and kissing her, and perhaps the rush of feeling her warmth pressed up against him had interfered with his good sense.

A soft _ding_ interrupted the tension that had begun to build between them, and galvanized Ruth into action.

"They're beautiful, Harry," she said in a neutral tone, pulling a vase out of the cupboard and quickly placing the flowers inside before turning her attention to the oven.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked gently, hoping there was still some way for him to salvage their evening.

She shot him a quick smile over her shoulder as she reached into the oven and pulled out a large casserole dish. "If you could put some water in that vase, and then set the flowers on the table, I'd be very grateful," she answered, and he did as he was told.

As he hurried to fill the vase, he noted that the flowers he'd bought for her previously had been placed in the very center of the counter, and he was touched to see that she had kept them. The new bouquet made a charming centerpiece on her little table, amidst the chipped and mismatched plates she'd set out for them. Once the flowers were settled he turned his attention to a bottle of wine sitting on the counter. He lifted it and caught Ruth's gaze, raising one eyebrow in silent question. She nodded, and he smiled.

"Corkscrew?" he asked.

"Top drawer, next to the fridge," she answered, still fiddling about with the casserole.

They seemed to have reached a silent agreement regarding the flowers and Harry's rather bold statement. Heavy conversations about love and intentions were set aside for the moment as they focused on domestic tasks; Harry opened and poured the wine, Ruth set the food on the table, and an amicable silence fell between them as they worked.

* * *

 **More to come soon! The film that Jo and Ros watched was** _ **Imagine Me and You;**_ **if you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I would like to take this opportunity to offer my sincerest thanks to my beautiful girlfriend, who provided the inspiration for this story, and who continues to fuel my muse. Though, she's also to blame for the delay between this last chapter and the last, having thoroughly distracted me last weekend.**

* * *

"I've been meaning to ask you," Harry said, covering over a brief silence that had sprung up between them, "where do you think I ought to plant that Japanese maple?"

He was leaned back in his chair, studying her carefully as she pushed the last of her food around her plate with her fork. The tension that had arisen as a result of his earlier declaration had dissipated somewhat over the course of their dinner, as they chatted about trivial things and drank more wine than was probably advisable. As he watched her he decided that she reminded him of nothing so much as a deer; she was gentle, and graceful, and lovely, and prone to running at the first sign of trouble. He had glimpsed a hidden strength in her, however, had seen it flashing in her eyes when she thought he'd lied to her, and when she'd booted Ros out of her shop. She was a maze of contradictions, it would seem; proud but timid, soft but strong, gentle but stubborn as a mule. She defied his expectations at every turn, and he dearly wished for more time with her, time to discover all the thousands of secrets he knew she kept hidden away from the rest of the world. He wanted to know her, and be known by her.

At the moment she was mulling over his question, taking a brief respite from fidgeting with the remains of her supper to sip her wine and, he noted with some pleasure, to steal a surreptitious glance at him over the rim of her glass.

"I was thinking the southwest corner of the garden, for the maple," she answered after a time, smiling at him faintly. "You've only the one tree out front, after all." She paused here for a moment, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if she was recalling their brief kiss beneath that one lone tree; he certainly was. "It will grow more like a shrub than a tree, at first," she continued after another sip of her wine. "They tend to spread out, rather than up. It will grow taller eventually, but it's all down to pruning, really."

Harry nodded. "In that case, I think the southwest corner will be lovely."

Another brief, easy silence fell. Ruth wasn't the sort of person who felt the need to fill every moment with idle chatter, who ran from introspection, and Harry appreciated that about her. Silence, in his estimation, was as much an art form as the spoken word, and these moments when thoughts and feelings were conveyed between them by just a gaze or a tilt of the head meant more to him than any conversation. Here, now, the silence and Ruth's place in it carried a sort of invitation, a sort of suggestion that perhaps she understood he had questions for her, and that now might be the moment to ask them. Aware as always of her skittish nature, Harry decided to take the roundabout approach.

"I called Catherine yesterday- my daughter," he added, in case Ruth didn't remember her name. He saw from her expression that she did, and thus encouraged, he continued, "I had to leave a message, but it's a start. And I have you to thank for that."

"I'm pleased for you, Harry, really I am," she said warmly. "I know it will mean a lot to her to hear from you."

"I hope so. I think I have an opportunity here, to be a better father than I was, and I don't mean to waste that chance."

Ruth offered him a gentle smile, and that smile gave him the courage to ask his first question.

"Tell me about your father, Ruth," he said in a soft voice.

She took her time before responding, finishing off her glass of wine, refilling it (and his in the process), folding up her napkin and tucking it under her plate. She leaned back in her chair, one arm wrapped around her middle, wine glass raised and at the ready, should she have need of further fortification.

"He was a wonderful man," she said finally. Harry kept his eyes on her as she spoke, mesmerized as always by the flicker of emotions in the depths of her expressive eyes, by the soft lilt of her voice and the gentle lines of her face.

"He was a doctor, my father. A good man, a kind man. He used to laugh and say that my first word wasn't a word at all, but a string of questions. I was an irritatingly curious child, and he was always patient with me. If I asked a question he didn't know the answer to, he would help me look it up, usually in some dusty book he'd found in the library."

She went quiet here, and so Harry picked up the thread of the conversation for her.

"It sounds like you loved him very much, and he you."

She nodded, a far-away expression clouding her features.

"I was a very lucky child, to grow up surrounded by that kind of love. I didn't understand, when I was small, how rare that is. And then," she took a deep breath, shifted uncomfortably for a moment, "and then, when I was eleven, he died."

Another silence here, as Ruth lost herself in her memories and Harry wondered how best to respond. He knew better than most how irritating the words "I'm sorry" could be, no matter how earnest the sentiment. Still, what other words could he offer her? He settled for no words at all, in the end, hoping she could read his sympathy for her in his expression. Her grateful little smile told him that she could.

"My mother remarried, not long after. His name was David. He'd been friends with my father for years, and he was a widower himself. I think they comforted one another, David and my mum. They understood one another. I was horrible to him in the beginning, though. As nice as he was to me, he wasn't my father, and it took me a long time to forgive him for that."

Once more Harry was struck by the depth of her intuition, by the way she saw clearly to the root of any problem, even where her own emotions were concerned. She carried an air of wisdom about her, a sense of age and knowledge beyond her years, and he couldn't help but think how precious she was to him because of it. She had been wounded, more than once, but she had survived. She had survived, and she had maintained her compassion, her quiet dignity, and in that moment he loved her for it.

"Family is never easy," he mused as his thoughts turned toward his own children. How would they describe him, if asked by a friend or a lover? Would they share Ruth's understanding of their parents' feelings and motivations, or would they be blinded by the pain of their own fractured childhoods? Harry wasn't entirely sure he wanted the answer to that particular question.

"No," Ruth agreed softly, and then, with more feeling, "No, it isn't."

He wondered what she was thinking about in that moment, what else she hadn't told him. She'd referred to her step-father in the past tense, and she had yet to mention her brother. She'd already shared so much with him, however, and Harry was loath to push her. If there was more to say on the subject, he'd rather she told him in her own time, when she was ready.

She rose from the table, gathering up her plate and her silverware in the process, and Harry copied her, following her path across the kitchen to the sink.

"Just leave them," she said. "I'll wash up later."

Harry nodded, and dropped his plate beside hers in the sink. He found himself at a loss, completely unsure of what to do next. He wasn't ready for their night to end, but this was Ruth's home, and he didn't want to impose on her. He'd pushed enough for one evening, he felt.

Ruth didn't seem to be suffering from any such indecision. She offered him a gentle smile before turning away from the counter. She collected her wine glass from the table and, with a quick glance over her shoulder, left the kitchen behind, heading for the sitting room. Harry rushed to follow suit, his heart hammering in his chest as visions of him and Ruth snuggled together on her couch swam before his eyes.

The sitting room was a warm, homey sort of place; bookshelves lined the walls and a frayed rug covered the aged hardwood beneath his feet. There was an old-fashioned fireplace on the far wall and an outdated, boxy television in one corner. Fidget was curled up on top of a blanket draped over the back of the sofa, his tail twitching gently as he watched them with a lazy sort of interest. Harry perused the bookshelves, noting with some delight that there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the titles he found. It was clear that this little library wasn't just for decoration; the shelves before him spoke to her love of the written word, in all its many forms. Battered copies of Ovid and Virgil shared space with crime noir novels, squeezed in between volumes of Marquez and Voltaire in their original languages. He wondered at that; some of the books were written in French, some in Spanish, some in Italian and ancient Greek, and they all looked equally well-thumbed. How many languages did she speak?

"I've always had a knack for languages," Ruth said quietly, coming to stand beside him. Once again, Harry got the distinct impression that this quiet, unassuming woman could read his mind. "I kept studying them, even after I left Oxford."

"Arabic, too?" he asked, motioning towards a selection of titles he couldn't decipher. "I thought you read Classics, at university."

The smile that crossed her face was almost pitying. "Oh, Harry. We wouldn't have the Classics if it weren't for the Arabic scholars who kept the texts alive while Europe was drowning in pestilence and religious fanaticism. You'd be surprised how many ancient Greek and Latin books you've read were actually translated from Arabic copies. That's one of many reasons that some Classics courses have expanded to include the study of Iberia and the Levant. Though that particular paradigm shift isn't very popular in more conservative academic circles."

And what on earth could he say to that? Harry wasn't put off by her intellect; if anything, watching her face light up as she spoke on this subject she was clearly so passionate about only served to deepen his affection for her. _Here is a mind at work,_ he thought to himself, _here is a woman who runs a flower shop by day and teaches herself languages by night, just for the pleasure of it._

"I've put you off, haven't I?" she asked, suddenly nervous, and Harry couldn't stop himself from reaching out and giving her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Her skin was soft and warm, and it took an almost super-human level of restraint to keep from pulling her into his arms in that moment.

"I was just thinking how lucky I am to have met you, and how you are so unlike anyone else I've ever known," he said honestly, carefully releasing her hand and turning his focus to a collection of records on the next shelf over. Though he wasn't looking at her face, Harry felt he knew Ruth well enough at this point to assume that she was blushing at his comments, and he didn't want to overwhelm her with his attentions.

"They were my father's," she explained, when she noticed him examining the records. "I've always been fond of vinyl; there's something so romantic about listening to a record. Not romantic in the sense of love," she added quickly, her eyes flickering to his face for a just a moment as though worried how he might interpret her words, "just, romantic; like the smell of an old book or that feeling you get when you sit outside with a cup of coffee and watch the sun rise. Something timeless, and precious."

"I have a record player, myself," Harry told her. "I understand exactly the feeling you mean. May I?" he asked, gesturing towards the records, and she nodded.

Somewhere amongst the classical composers and vintage sixties pop hits Harry had found a record he very, _very_ much wanted to listen to with her. He pulled it down from the shelf, careful to keep her from seeing the title. He wanted to surprise her with it. He treated the record gently, aware of the regard Ruth had for her father and the way she must have treasured these physical reminders of him. He fitted the record and dropped the needle, and waited for a moment, wanting to watch her face as the first strains of music began to play.

She recognized it instantly, her features softening in the dim light afforded them by the one lone lamp in the corner.

"I wouldn't have had you down as an Etta James fan," she said. Her tone was more thoughtful than playful, and Harry wondered how often she thought about his taste in music. He wondered how often she thought about him at all, and if it was anywhere near as often as he thought of her. He carefully set his glass down on a small table by the sofa before reaching out to take hers as well. With their hands now unencumbered, he reached for her, and she moved with him gracefully, coming to rest in the circle of his arms.

" _At last,"_ Etta sang, " _My love has come along…"_

They danced slowly, softly, swaying together. Harry marveled at the way she fit against him, the soft curve of her breast against the hardness of his chest, her head at just the right height for him to brush his lips against her temple. He couldn't remember the last time he had danced with a woman, nor could he recall the last time he had wanted to. Being here with her, in the warmth and quiet of her sitting room, it seemed the most natural thing in the world, and when she let out a soft, contented sigh, his heart soared.

" _I found a dream that I could speak to, a dream that I can call my own. I found a thrill to press my cheek to, a thrill I've never known…"_

Harry looked down at Ruth the same moment she looked up at him, and he lost himself in the swirling depths of her luminous eyes. Her eyes, now blue, now grey, now something indescribable; they held him, searched him, found him. There was no other choice for him now.

Without a second thought he leaned towards her and brushed his lips against hers, and consigned himself to the fire.

She consumed him, overwhelmed him, overcame him; her lips, soft and warm and wet; her tongue, insistent against his own; her hands, delicate and searching. His heart pounded in his chest, the breath vanished from his lungs, and all his consciousness funneled down to a single point, unable to think or care or feel anything but _her._ Their kiss was urgent and unrestrained, a head-long spiral; her hands traveled across his shoulders, blazing a trail across his skin, while his roved across her waist to her back, one hand slipping beneath her shirt, desperate to feel her skin beneath his fingertips. He felt her shiver under his touch, the fingers of one hand splayed across the small of her back while the other gripped her hip, pulling her into him. He could feel himself beginning to harden against her, and if the way she ground her hips against his own was any indication, she could feel it, too.

He tore his mouth from hers, panting slightly as he trailed his lips across her cheek, over her jaw, down toward her neck. She gasped when she felt his tongue flick against her pulse, lifted a hand to cradle the back of his head, holding him there against her skin. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind Harry wondered if he should slow down, but he could taste her, could feel her molding herself to him, could hear her little whimpers as his mouth reached a particularly sensitive spot on her neck, and he couldn't bring himself to pull away. He moved his hand from her hip, slipping around to grasp her bum, clutching her to him, and felt her arch her back, bowing against him.

"Harry," she breathed, her voice low and rough, and _God_ but he loved the way she said his name.

If she would have let him, he would have had her then and there, but it seemed that Ruth had other ideas. She caught his head in her hands and pulled his face back up to hers, kissing him sweetly, but at the same time pulling herself away from him. He could feel her drawing away from him, in more ways than one, and he let her go, easing out of the kiss until they stood, panting and shivering together, their foreheads resting against one another.

"You should go," she said quietly, almost regretfully, and Harry nodded, trying to reign in his disappointment. She was right, of course; this thing between them was too delicate, too precious, and he didn't want to take more from her than she was willing to give. He kissed her cheek, and pulled his arms away from her. She stepped back instantly, catching her kiss-swollen lip between her teeth.

"Thank you, Ruth, for tonight," he told her earnestly, hoping she understood that he wasn't angry with her for pulling them back from the edge.

She smiled timidly, and the sight of it warmed his heart. They had taken more steps toward one another tonight than in all the time that he had known her, and he was grateful for that. Grateful that she had shared so much of herself with him, and grateful for the chance to spend more time with her in the future. He started towards the door, and she fell in beside him, wrapping one small hand around his elbow and smiling up at him through dark eyelashes.

He kissed her again at the door, because he simply couldn't stop himself. One brief, almost chaste kiss after the conflagration of the sitting room, followed by one whispered _good night,_ and then he was on his own, meandering across the lane under the light of the stars, whistling to himself.


	14. Chapter 14

Harry woke on Monday morning with the taste of Ruth still on his lips.

As he made his bed, and showered, and shaved, and dressed for the day, he hummed to himself and tried to recall exactly how she'd felt, wrapped in his arms as they danced together.

The rain that had threatened all day on Sunday had fallen overnight, and though the road into the village was muddy, the sky was clear and blue, and Harry walked along with a smile on his face.

Zoe was waiting for him at the café with a hot cup of tea and a smile, and if she found his blissful expression somewhat out of place, she said not a word.

Sitting outside at his favorite table, watching the high street come to life around him, Harry pondered the events of the last week, mulling everything over in his mind. It had all happened shockingly quickly; George's attack in the shop, then Harry's first dinner with Ruth, then their frank conversation after she called in sick to work, then their second dinner. They'd gone from passing acquaintances to something much more in the span of three days, and he wondered if perhaps it was too much too fast. He still didn't really understand what had been going through Ruth's mind on Saturday morning, what had made her feel so out of sorts that she couldn't even bring herself to come into work. Certainly their burgeoning relationship was to blame, but why? What exactly was she thinking? How was she feeling this morning?

He could ask her, he supposed; when he saw her this morning on his walk back to the cottage he could ask her quietly how she was feeling, if she was happy with the development of their relationship, if she wanted to have another meal with him. Two of those three questions frightened him quite badly however; he imagined how he might respond, were she to ask him about his feelings, and shuddered at the very thought. The lilies had been his clumsy attempt at explaining his feelings without having to actually give voice to them, and though he had volunteered those feelings when she pressed, he loathed that sort of emotional outpouring. He'd never been very good at it, and, based on what he knew about Ruth, she wasn't either. Would it be unkind of him, to put her on the spot as she had done to him the night before?

Zoe brought him his sandwich and he nodded at her over his newspaper, still pondering the matter of Ruth and the mysteries of her feelings. Given what he knew about her past, Harry understood that perhaps Ruth might be more reticent than most to start up a new romance, and he was deeply grateful that she had trusted him enough to make a place for him in her life. Whatever happened next between them, he was determined not to violate that trust, determined to prove to her that he was nothing like George.

* * *

When Harry approached her outside the shop that morning, Ruth was wearing a soft gray dress and a secret smile, just for him. Her hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, highlighting the delicate curve of her neck, and Harry's hands twitched as he fought back the desire to run the tips of his fingers along that smooth expanse of skin.

"Good morning, Ruth," he said when he drew level with her.

"Good morning, Harry," she answered, wiping her hands on her apron the way she always did when she saw him, a little nervous tick that made him smile at the familiarity of it all.

"Sleep well?" he asked, fishing about for some way to take her temperature, as it were, to determine where exactly he stood with her and whether or not it was too early to ask her if she had plans for the next weekend.

She colored slightly at his question, and there was something rather incredulous in her gaze, as if she couldn't quite believe he'd ask her that in the broad light of day on the side of the street.

"Tolerably," she said in a somewhat amused tone of voice. "You?"

"Very well, thank you," he answered with a little lopsided grin. Maybe that wasn't the best way to break the ice, but he quite liked it when she looked at him that way.

"Big plans for today?" she asked, turning her attention back to the flowers in front of her, gently stacking bouquets of daisies and tulips into the little wooden canisters on the shelves before her.

"I'm afraid it's the garden all day for me," he told her, tucking his hands in his pockets. "There's the tree to plant in the front, and then I need to start excavating the back garden. If you don't hear from me by tomorrow morning, please send a search party."

She laughed at his little joke, and Harry's heart felt fit to burst at the sound of it.

"I'm sure it's not that bad."

"You haven't seen it," he answered.

"Perhaps you should remedy that," she fired back, giving him a mischievous little glance over her shoulder.

Mindful as ever of the watchful eyes of the village all around them, Harry resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her and press his lips to the back of her neck. Instead he leaned in very close, and whispered in her ear, "Perhaps I should."

He leaned back quickly, wanting to catch a glimpse of her face, wondering if her heart raced at their proximity the way his always did. He was pleased to note the flush of her cheeks and the way she'd caught her bottom lip between her teeth; this was another little tell of hers, a little gesture intended he was sure to stop her saying something she might regret, something he very much wanted to hear.

"And you? What's on your agenda for today?" he asked, changing the subject out of a desire to keep things light between them.

She stammered for a moment, clearly thrown by the sudden shift in the atmosphere between them. "There's a big wedding coming up next Saturday, and the first of my deliveries is set to arrive tomorrow. I need to make room for everything; they've spared no expense, and I've got a truly astronomical amount of flowers coming in over the next week."

Her tone was faintly disapproving, and Harry only just managed to stifle a laugh at that. Here she was, standing outside of her own flower shop with a pile of daisies in her hand, casting judgment on someone else for ordering too many for their wedding. She was a woman of strong opinions, his Ruth. Though, he reminded himself, whether or not she was truly his remained to be seen.

"Would you like to come round later this week?" he asked rather impulsively. "It will take me a few days to get the back garden sorted out, but once that's done I'd quite like your advice on how to proceed there."

She nodded, clearly pleased with the trust he'd placed in her. "That would be lovely, Harry. Just let me know when you want me."

 _Now, please,_ he thought, _I want you now, and every minute of every day._

"Want me to come round, I mean," she added hastily, cheeks flushing as she realized the implication of her words.

"I will," he told her, momentarily surprised by how low and rough his own voice sounded.

"Ruth!" a voice called out from somewhere behind them, and Harry inwardly cursed his poor luck. He was quite looking forward to seeing what sort of double entendre she'd come up with next.

They turned as one and saw Fiona Carter making her way towards them; Fiona was as lovely and well put-together as ever, not a single strand of dark hair out of place, a knowing sort of smile on her face as she realized who Ruth was speaking to.

"Good morning, all," she said breezily as she drew level with them.

"Fiona," Harry answered, giving her a little nod. Ruth for her part didn't say a thing; though she was still smiling, Harry noticed that she seemed to have tensed up a bit, and he could almost feel her beginning to worry about how much Fiona had seen of their conversation. He wanted to tell her to calm down, that everything was all right, that no one would judge her for speaking to a neighbor on a fine Monday morning, but he knew that such comments would not be well received, and thus held his tongue.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I need to steal Ruth away from you for a moment. I have something of a botanical emergency on my hands."

"No problem at all, I was just about to head off myself," he lied. "Best of luck to you."

Fiona just gave him an odd little smile and thanked him for his good wishes. Ruth shot him a look that seemed to be equal parts apology and question, and he answered with a grin and a nod of his head before he set off on his way down the street.

* * *

Harry spent the remainder of the day in the back garden, toiling away amidst the weeds and brambles and a surprisingly large pile of trash; apparently someone (no doubt a group of bored teenagers) had taken to using this space as their own personal landfill, chucking everything from beer bottles to cigarette butts to crisp wrappers over the fence and into the garden. Most of it appeared quite old, which was just as well; Harry didn't relish the idea of having to hunt down the culprits and take them to task for it. Those days were well behind him.

By the time ten p.m. rolled around, he was seated at his kitchen table, lingering over a glass of whiskey and an old book. When the whiskey was done he would cart himself off to bed, and he was already planning out his tasks for the next day in his head. He'd made a significant amount of progress in one afternoon, but it would be at least Thursday before he was ready to let Ruth see his back garden. Perhaps another Friday dinner would be in order, he mused as he closed his book and leaned back in his chair. He still had the bottle of wine she'd brought over last time, and would be more than happy to cook for her again.

As his thoughts turned once more to Ruth, Harry was disturbed by the sound of the doorbell ringing.

 _What on earth?_ He rose from his chair, heart hammering in his chest as his copper's brain went into overdrive imagining all the horrible things that could be waiting for him on the other side of that door. Though Harry was quite friendly with many of his neighbors he couldn't imagine any of them turning up on his doorstep at this time of night. His daughter knew where to find him, but the chances of her coming to call seemed just as slim. By the time he opened the door, he thought he was quite prepared for anything.

What he was not prepared for was Ruth, in blue jeans and an oversized t-shirt, clearly trying not to cry as she wrung her hands on his front step.

"H-H-Harry," she stammered, swaying slightly on her feet.

"Ruth?" he asked, dumbfounded, reaching out with one hand to catch her by the waist and hold her steady.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, I know it's late, but Ros just called, something's happened down at the shop, and I need to get there quickly, but I don't think I should drive-" her words tumbled out, one right after the other, and he interrupted her just to give her a moment to catch her breath.

"Of course I'll take you," he told her without reservation, slipping into the shoes he kept by the door and scooping his keys out of a bowl on the side table.

Ruth's shoulders slumped as she relaxed infinitesimally; she was still shaking when he wrapped his arm around her waist and escorted her from the porch down to his car. As Harry opened the door for her and helped her into the car his mind whirled with a thousand possibilities; what could have happened at this time of night that would merit a phone call from the police? For a moment he imagined the shop on fire, everything that Ruth had built and nurtured and loved going up in flames while she wept on the sidewalk and he stood by, powerless to stop it. He gave his head a little shake as he closed her door and crossed to the other side of the car, telling himself sternly to get a grip, and focus on one thing at a time. She hadn't told him what had happened yet, and there was no use assuming the worst.

Once he was behind the wheel Harry put his foot down, determined to get Ruth to her shop as quickly as possible. Without thinking he reached out his hand to her, and she took it in both of hers, clinging to him fiercely as they barreled down the lane. She did not speak, and he did not force her; she was clearly rattled, and he supposed he'd learn the truth soon enough. There was a small part of him, buried beneath the worry and the doubt and the fear, that was quite glad she had called him. Glad she wasn't going through this alone, and glad that _he_ was the one she had chosen to lean on for support.

By the time they reached the shop, a small crowd had gathered. There were two police cruisers standing out front, their blue lights casting an ominous glow over the scene. He could see Ros and Adam in their uniforms, talking quietly to one another off to the side. Sam and a few others who lived in the flats down the way were huddled together, no doubt concocting a thousand explanations for what they saw.

"Oh, God," Ruth said, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

"It's going to be all right," Harry told her as he put the car in park. "Ros and Adam are here, see? They'll take care of it. Whatever's happened, it's going to be all right."

She gave him a sad, watery smile before opening her door, and stepping out into the night. Harry steeled himself for the worst, and followed her.

Ros and Adam had cordoned off the shop with cones and bright yellow police tape, but they beckoned Ruth over the moment they saw her. Neither of them objected to Harry's presence, for which he was very thankful.

For a moment Harry simply stood and stared. The two big windows facing the street had been completely smashed; it looked as if someone had taken the heavy wooden shelves out front and thrown them through the glass. Inside every bin and shelf and stand had been overturned, and the flowers lay in ruined heaps, most of them torn to bits as though someone had purposefully walked over them. Many of the shelves had been ripped straight off the wall, and all the little trinkets latter scattered and shattered across the tiled floor.

"What the hell happened here?" Harry asked Ros; beside him Ruth was apparently too shell-shocked to speak, staring at her shop with an expression of abject horror on her face.

"We're not sure," Ros told him through clenched teeth. She stood with her hands on her hips and her ever-present scowl firmly in place. "Danny was walking Sam home from the pub when they heard a commotion coming from the shop. They got here just in time to see a silver car driving away."

"Oh, God," Ruth said again, covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Who do we know who drives a silver car, Ruth?" Ros asked in a biting tone. Adam shot her a sharp look and Ros marched away to disperse the crowd, muttering under her breath.

Harry had a pretty good idea who the driver of that silver car might have been.

"Ruth," Adam said kindly, "I think we all know who was responsible for this. We want to make sure he's punished, and we want to make sure he doesn't get the chance to do anything like this again. We need you to tell us the truth."

Ruth was still staring at the ruins of her shop, shaking her head slightly. "I don't want any trouble," she said in a broken little voice. Harry's heart went out to her in that moment; he knew she meant what she said, that all she wanted was to live her quiet life with her books and her flowers and her cat, and he wished there was some way he could give that to her, some way he could keep her safe and shield her from the horrors she had endured.

"Danny and Sam didn't see the number plate on the car, so we can't identify him that way, but we know he was here just a few days ago. Did he threaten you? Did he say anything that would make you think he might do something like this?"

She was quiet for a very long time after Adam's last question. Harry couldn't help but recall their conversation in the storeroom on Wednesday; _for a while, he kept coming round, threatening to burn down the shop, stupid things like that…_

Where would it stop? He wondered. Something Wonderful was more than just a shop; it was a part of her, a physical manifestation of her gentleness, her goodness, every inch of it lovingly tended and curated to be a warm, friendly place for anyone who happened by. She had poured every ounce of her time and energy into this building until every beam and board and box seemed to sigh her name. To see it so mistreated was almost as distressing as seeing the mark of George's hand on Ruth's face, and Harry was certain that was the intention behind this attack. George wanted nothing more than to own Ruth, and having been denied her, he had decided to break her. That simply could not be allowed to happen.

"He told me he would destroy everything I loved," Ruth said in a small voice, her eyes distant and unfocused.

"And he does drive a silver car?" Adam prodded gently. Ruth nodded, still refusing to look at him.

"Ok," Adam said in that same soft, even tone of voice. "Ros has sent everyone home, and Dimitri's coming round to board up the windows for the night. I need you to come with me to the police station so we can take a statement from you-" Ruth opened her mouth to protest, but Adam carried on, "You'll need a statement for the insurance any way, Ruth, and it's best we just get it taken care of tonight."

Ruth wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, curling over slightly so that she seemed even smaller than usual. Harry wanted nothing more than to hold her, but he knew how she felt about inviting gossip, and so kept his hands to himself. People would be talking enough about her in the days to come, he knew, and he didn't want to be the cause of any more speculation than he already was.

"Can Harry come with me?" Ruth asked.

Adam shot a surprised glance at Harry; for his part, Harry had been right on the verge of demanding he accompany her, and he was as surprised as Adam that the suggestion had come from Ruth herself.

Eventually Adam nodded. "Harry can wait for you at the station and when we're done he can take you home."

That seemed to satisfy Ruth for the moment; she allowed Adam to lead her to his police car, and Harry followed them, casting one last look over his shoulder at the rubble inside the shop.


	15. Chapter 15

It was after midnight by the time Adam finished taking Ruth's statement and told Harry he could drive her home. The trip back to their street seemed to take an eternity; Ruth was huddled in the passenger's seat, her hands wrapped around her knees and her head turned to stare blankly out the window. Harry's thoughts were buzzing so loudly that he was almost grateful for the silence between them; he was putting together the case in his head, mulling over the evidence that Ros and Adam had collected and wondering if it was enough to land George in prison. Ruth had never pressed charges against George for assault, Harry knew, and that detail was bothering him. If there had been a firm record of domestic violence, then the evidence they had might be enough; as it was, Harry wasn't sure this case had a chance. All they had was her word that he had threatened her and the sighting of a silver car, and those two things together wouldn't see be sufficient. That thought enraged him even as it terrified him. From his brief interaction with the man Harry knew that George felt himself above the law; if he were allowed to get away with this, would he grow even bolder? George knew where she lived; what wouldn't he do to hurt her?

It was that nagging question more than anything that led Harry to pull the car into his own drive, rather than Ruth's. It took a moment for their location to register with her, and when she turned to him it was with a question in her gaze.

"I don't want you staying alone tonight, Ruth," he told her. "You're frightened, and we don't know where he's gone. Please stay in my spare room. For my sake, if not for yours."

He'd made her angry, he could see that in the hard line of her mouth and the set of her shoulders, but she didn't dismiss the idea out of hand, and that was something. Instead she watched his face for a long moment, turning the full force of her glorious eyes on him, and he stayed firm beneath her stare, willing her to understand that he was only trying to help.

After a time she finally acquiesced, giving him a little nod and turning away to clamber out of the car. Harry breathed a sigh of relief; at least he wouldn't have to worry about her spending the night alone.

They shuffled up towards the cottage in silence, but walking rather closer together than would be considered normal for passing acquaintances, and her nearness helped to ease the bands of panic that had wrapped around his chest the moment she'd first appeared on his doorstep. She was here, and she was safe, and everything would be all right. He repeated those words to himself over and over like a mantra as he unlocked the door and stood aside to let her pass.

"Sweet tea, that's what you need," he told her once they were inside. Ruth was obviously agitated and Harry himself was much too worked up to consider going to sleep right away. She seemed surprised by the suggestion but didn't argue, choosing instead to follow along behind him as he led the way to the kitchen, flicking the lights on as he went.

Ruth settled herself at his kitchen table, still wrapped up in silence; her eyes, usually so expressive, were blank as she ran her fingers along the grain of the table. The quiet was heavy, oppressive, and though there was a part of him that longed to walk into the sitting room and put a record on, Harry did nothing to break it. He didn't want to remind her of their dance or their kiss, didn't want to demand a single thing from her in this moment. Her presence here with him was enough, and so he put the kettle on and pulled out milk and sugar and mugs, all unspeaking.

He watched her surreptitiously as he puttered around with the tea things, looking for all the warning signs his years of training had taught him to watch out for. Trauma did different things to different people; some people shut down, some people exploded, some carried on, and some never recovered. This wasn't the first time Ruth had been hurt, not even the first time she'd been hurt by George, but this was something else, a deeply personal violation, and he wanted to prepare himself for whatever course her grief might take. Her posture was closed off, her expression distant, and she hadn't spoken a word since they'd left the police station. Taking all of these factors into account, Harry decided the best thing for him to do was try to get her to talk. She might scream, she might rage, she might try to storm out, but if he could get to her react, at least he'd know there wasn't anything worse waiting just below the surface of her aloof exterior.

There was no need for him to worry, as it turned out; when he set a steaming mug of tea in front of her, she broke the silence first.

"How very English," she said, offering him a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Sweet tea."

He nodded as he seated himself across the table from her, taking a sip from his mug and watching, waiting, willing her to speak again.

"Adam thinks insurance will cover most of the damage. Sam texted me, and said she's going to take the afternoon off from the library tomorrow, to help me clean up."

"I can help as well," Harry volunteered. "The garden can wait."

She sighed and passed a hand over her face; Harry didn't know exactly how old she was (younger than him, certainly), but in that moment she looked more worn and weary than she had any right to be.

"I appreciate the offer, Harry, and I'm grateful to you for coming with me tonight, but I don't want you to feel like you have to…take care of me. I'm quite capable of looking after myself."

He studied her face for an instant, trying to determine if there was something else behind her words. Trying to determine if she was just stubborn and reluctant to accept help, or if she was reluctant to accept help from him specifically. What must she feel like in this moment? Was he crowding her? Did he make her uncomfortable?

"I don't feel obligated to help," he told her finally. "I want to help. I…care about you, Ruth, and I like to think that we're friends. This is what friends do. They help one another."

"Friends," she repeated. There was a wry, knowing sort of look on her face, and Harry couldn't help but smile at her sheepishly. Perhaps friends wasn't the best word to describe what they were to one another, after all, but he meant what he said. Even if he hadn't kissed her, even if he hadn't felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, he would still have offered to help her, and he would have meant it just as earnestly as he did now.

"Friends," he told her firmly. It was very important to him that she understood he had no intention of imposing himself where he wasn't wanted, that whatever happened between them would only happen with her consent, when she was ready. He didn't want to control her, didn't want to own her, didn't want to pressure her; all he wanted was to love her.

She nodded at this, and took another long sip from her tea.

"Did Adam say anything about how they plan to proceed?" Harry asked her quietly. He couldn't help it; as much as he wanted to avoid discussing the wreckage of the flower shop, he needed to know what was happening. He needed to know that George would never be allowed to hurt her again. And, barring that, he needed to take action himself. A few days before he had formed the beginnings of a plan, collecting phone numbers and taking stock of the resources available to him, and if Adam and Ros couldn't do anything within the constraints of the law, Harry was more than happy to take matters into his own hands.

"They took pictures of everything, and they're going to bring someone in to take fingerprints in the morning. It will take a few hours, but Adam said they should be finished up by lunchtime, and then I can start to clean up. There's no telling how long it will take to get the results back from the fingerprints, if they find any at all."

Harry gave a little grunt, rubbing his hand over the stubble that had sprung up on his chin. Perhaps they would get lucky, and George would have left his mark all over the devastation of the flower shop. Then again, perhaps they wouldn't.

"What about CCTV? Are there any cameras on the high street?"

Ruth shook her head. "A few years ago a bunch of teenagers thought it would be a laugh to pull all the cameras down. We never got around to replacing them."

 _Of course not,_ Harry thought grimly.

"I'm tired, Harry," she said, her voice low and unsteady. She was focused intently on her tea, refusing to meet his gaze, but still he couldn't seem to take his eyes from her. It was all so wrong, somehow, that someone as lovely as Ruth could endure so much hardship. "I think I ought to just go to bed."

"Of course," he said as he rose from the table. She followed him as he led her through the downstairs. "The spare bedroom's just here," he indicated a door to his left, "the bed's already made. And the bathroom's here," another door, this time on the right, "fresh towels and everything inside. My room's upstairs, should you need anything. Anything at all," he added, somewhat unnecessarily. This wasn't exactly how he'd imagined Ruth spending the night in his home, but he wanted to provide whatever comfort he could for her.

"Thank you." She was twisting her hands together again, looking bashfully at the floor, and he couldn't help but wonder if her thoughts had taken the same path, if she, too, were imagining the different circumstances under which she might have come to sleep in this cottage.

"Sleep well, Ruth," he told her in a low voice. He'd like to kiss her cheek, like to take her by the hand and lead her up the stairs to his room instead, but now was not the time.

"And you, Harry," she answered, before slipping through the door and into the spare room. Alone now, Harry heaved a great sigh, and turned away.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Throughout the endless hours of the night Harry tossed, and turned, and fretted, and slept not a wink. By the time half five rolled around he was still wide awake, and frankly quite cross about the whole situation. He lay flat on his back, the blankets tangled round his knees and his pillows all lumpy and jumbled together, and asked himself what the hell he was going to do next. Ruth was downstairs, though surely still asleep; should he go and fix a cup of tea, and wait for her to wake up? Once she did, should he cook her breakfast, or take her with him into the village for a bit of tea and bacon at the café? Should he call Adam and demand to know how they were getting on, or should he wait for the police to update Ruth on the status of their investigation? What would Ruth want him to do?

 _Go make a cup of tea,_ he decided. _Offer Ruth breakfast here, don't make her go into the village before she's ready. Don't call Adam until you've had a chance to speak with Ruth._

With all of that settled, he dragged himself out of bed, and pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers. He brushed his teeth, but decided to forego his shower and shave; Ruth likely wouldn't be up for a little while yet, and he wanted her to get the first shower of the day. The hot water in this house didn't last very long, and if only one of them could have a hot shower, he wanted it to be her.

Taking pains to make as little noise as possible, Harry made his way downstairs in bare feet, and headed straight for the kitchen. Upon arriving at his destination, he was quite surprised to find the kettle still warm and a clean mug sitting out on the counter, as though it were waiting for him. The door leading from the kitchen into the back garden was more window than door, and it afforded him a clear view of Ruth, sitting cross-legged on the concrete slab that served as a patio. Harry set the kettle to heat back up and made himself a cup of tea as quickly as he could, all the while watching Ruth's back through the door. The garden faced almost due east, and from her vantage point, Ruth had a clear view of the sunrise. He was reminded of something she'd said, about the romance of watching the sunrise with a cup of coffee in hand; apparently tea worked just as well.

As soon as his own tea was ready, Harry took a deep breath and walked outside to join her, mug in hand.

"Good morning," he said softly as he opened the door, not wanting to startle her any more than was necessary.

Ruth jumped slightly, but when she glanced over her shoulder at him she was smiling, and that gave him hope.

"Good morning," she answered. "I decided to take you up on your offer, and get a look at your back garden. Will you join me?"

Already he could hear his dodgy knee practically begging him not to, but her voice was warm and soft from lack of sleep, her hair messy and perfect, and there was no force on earth that could keep him away from her in this moment.

"Getting down there is no problem," Harry told her as he eased himself to the ground beside her, stretching his legs out in front of him, "but we might need to call the fire department to get me back up again."

She laughed a little at his joke, for which he was very thankful. She seemed almost herself again this morning, though some of the sadness lingered around her eyes.

"You'll need to invest in some furniture for the patio," she advised him. "A few chairs at the least."

Harry nodded; he had a sudden vision of himself of sitting in a heavy wooden chair on a fine summer night, a glass of wine in one hand and Ruth's hand in the other. It was a lovely thought.

"And flowers?" he prodded gently. Beside him Ruth smiled, and he took a moment to study her. She held her mug in both her hands, her forearms resting gently on her thighs. Her rather lovely thighs, he noted, shown off to their best advantage by her blue jeans. Ruth still wore her hair gathered in a ponytail, but more than a few strands had escaped their confines, spilling delicately across the curve of her cheek. Her blue eyes were clear and kind, the fine lines around her mouth soft and gentle, and he very much wanted to take her in his arms, and press his lips against those lines. Instead he smiled, and waited for her answer.

"Oh, lots of flowers, I should think," she said finally. "Perhaps a nice dog rose. You've room enough for another tree or two. Honestly, Harry, you've enough room to dig a little plot back there," she motioned to the far corner of the garden, "and plant a nice a little herb garden, if you wanted."

As she spoke he could almost see what she was envisioning, could feel the garden coming to life around them, could imagine the pair of them in it. They could take their morning tea out here, he thought, and she could help him tend the flowers, and in the evenings he could pick fresh rosemary and thyme from the garden to use when he cooked their supper. It was an intoxicating fantasy, this could-be life with Ruth, and he found it difficult to remain in the present, where she was not quite a lover and not quite a friend and certainly not someone he woke up with every morning. _You're on dangerous ground, Pearce,_ he told himself firmly.

"I think that would be lovely," he said aloud, and she hummed in pleasure at his response.

"I hope it wasn't too forward of me, helping myself to tea," she said after a long and comfortable silence.

"Not at all," he assured her. "I'd like for you to feel at home here."

The second the words left his mouth he regretted them, but there was no taking them back. He stared into his tea, waiting for her to chastise him, or perhaps take off running, but neither circumstance arose. He looked up to find her smiling at him over the rim of her mug.

"Would you like some breakfast?" he asked. Sitting out here with her was rather pleasant, but the concrete beneath them was hard and uncomfortable, and her steady gaze made him very nervous, for some reason.

She nodded, and rose to her feet in one gentle motion. She held out her hand to him, as if to help him up, and though he knew it would do him no good, he accepted it. With much grumbling and an embarrassingly loud crack from his knee, Harry eventually righted himself, still holding Ruth's hand tightly in his own. They stood together for a moment in the stillness of the early morning, the first faint rays of the sun peeking over the distant treeline. Harry's heart stirred at the sight of her there beside him, and nothing else made sense in that instant but that he lean forward and press a gentle kiss against her lips. They were limited somewhat by the mugs they both held, but she returned his kiss, her mouth warm and soft against him, and when she pulled away, she was smiling at him brightly.

"Breakfast?" she asked breathlessly, and he just grinned back at her, and led her into the house.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I just want to say, again, how thankful I am to all of you for reading and reviewing. I have been bowled over by your comments and your support, and every single review means the world to me. On we go!**

* * *

Breakfast was a quiet affair; Harry made omelets with a bit of diced pepper and a bit of bacon, and Ruth made them each a fresh cup of tea. They lingered over their plates for a time, chatting quietly about the food and the garden and everything that wasn't the flower shop. Conversation flowed easily between them, and when they finished eating, Harry found himself reluctant to move from the table. He didn't want to do anything to break this tenuous connection between them, and if Ruth's current posture was anything to go by, she didn't either.

"I've a bit more work to do in the garden," Harry mused as he finished the last of his tea. "Would you like to help me?" The thought had formed in his mind during his sleepless night and it hadn't let him go; he quite liked the idea of spending the morning with Ruth out in the garden, working together in the sunshine. He imagined it would be quite something, to see her in her element, and he desperately wanted that opportunity.

Ruth's face lit up at his suggestion, and Harry silently congratulated himself for so easily devising a way to keep her mind off the shop for the morning. Adam had told her she could come in around lunchtime, and Harry was determined to keep her smiling and by his side until then.

And so it was that Harry found himself happily hacking away at the brambles by the fence line while Ruth puttered around the bit of garden he'd already cleared, pulling weeds and humming softly to herself. He couldn't quite pick out the tune, but she seemed content to be in his garden, and he was content to have her with him. They didn't speak much; she hummed, and he grunted, and the sun rose higher, and the minutes slipped away.

Harry called a halt to proceedings around eleven; he wanted to give Ruth enough time to wash up before they ventured into the village. Though it was quite warm and Harry had sweated straight through his shirt, Ruth looked as lovely as ever, the color high in her cheeks and a smudge of dirt across her forehead making her look impossibly young in the morning sunshine.

"I think we made good progress this morning," she said proudly, surveying the garden with her hands on her hips.

"Having an extra set of hands certainly helped," Harry agreed, discreetly mopping the sweat from his forehead as he came to stand beside her.

"Isn't that what friends do, Harry? Help each other?" Her voice was playful, very nearly teasing; _God_ but she was irresistible when she was like this. Giving no thought to how unkempt he currently was, Harry wrapped his hands around her waist and drew her to him.

"That's what _good_ friends do, Ruth," he told her in a low voice; as he bent his head to kiss her, he saw a flash of a triumphant smile on her face.

He would never tire of kissing this woman. Every time their lips met it felt new and exciting; this time, she sucked his bottom lip between her teeth and caught it there for a moment, and her playful mood suited him just fine. He got his own back, and when he did, she whimpered and arched her back, pressing herself against him. He reflexively tightened his grip on her hips, holding her in place as his tongued delved into her mouth and she raised a hand to cup his cheek. She gave a little giggle then, and he pulled back, wondering what on earth was going through her mind.

"You haven't shaved," she told him breathlessly, reaching up on her tiptoes to drop a gentle kiss against the stubble on his cheek. Now was perhaps not the best time to mention the failings of his hot water heater, and so Harry offered no explanation.

"I like it," she continued, leaving a trail of small, suckling kissing against his jawline.

"In that case," he told her, pressing his advantage to lean in and taste the salty sweetness of her neck, "I'll never shave again." To bring his point home he nuzzled his stubbly cheek against the column of her throat, and was rewarded with another little giggle.

"I didn't say that," she protested in mock seriousness, catching his face in her hands and bringing it back up to her own. "I don't want to date a grizzly bear."

For a moment time itself seemed to stop; the garden was still, and Harry couldn't hear a thing above the pounding of his heart. Ruth had frozen as well, shocked into silence by her own words. It wasn't a statement of fact; Harry wasn't even sure it qualified as a tacit admission, but he felt keenly the importance of his reaction to her little quip. Whatever he said next might have her falling back into his embrace or it might have her running for the hills, and he could only hope that he got it right.

In the end he settled for saying only, "I shall have to keep that in mind," delivering the line with a smile that he hoped came off as roguish, rather than pleading.

Ruth kissed his cheek one last time before pulling away from him, running her hands over her hair and smiling down at her shoes.

"I should probably go home and get cleaned up. They should be finishing up at the shop soon, and I need to get the place sorted before my delivery comes in this afternoon."

Though Harry was supremely disappointed by her retreat, he decided to focus instead on the fact that they'd had a lovely morning together, and were set to see one another again in just a little while.

"Would you like me to drive you into the village?" he asked, tucking his hands in his pockets and rocking slightly on his heels as he waited for her answer.

Ruth shook her head. "It's a beautiful day. I'd rather walk." She started to make her way towards the house, but stopped to glance at him over her shoulder. "I would appreciate some company, though."

Harry grinned at her in response.

* * *

When Ruth stepped out of her cottage and met Harry for their walk into the village, she seemed almost to be a different person. Gone were her gentle smiles and teasing little comments; she kept her eyes down on the road and fidgeted with her hands as they walked along. All morning, the tragedy of the night before had felt like nothing so much as a bad dream, burned away with the rising sun. But, as they made their way towards the shop and contemplated the task they'd set for the afternoon, reality had come crashing down on both of them. Ruth was quiet and Harry was uncertain, neither knowing quite what to expect. The simple, boundless joy of the morning had been replaced with a worried trepidation, and there seemed to be nothing Harry could say to fix it. He desperately wanted to see playful, affectionate Ruth again, but even through his current despair he found he admired her quiet strength. She was unhappy, certainly, but she was also determined; what few words she'd spoken to him had been a plan of attack for the shop. Through her fear and her sorrow Ruth's main focus had been on recovery, rather than lamentation, and Harry added this resilience to the growing list of qualities he adored about her.

True to his word, Dimitri had neatly boarded up the windows of the shop the night before, and he was leaning up against the side of the building speaking quietly to Adam when Harry and Ruth arrived.

"Good morning," Ruth said in her sweet, gentle voice, and both men turned to face her with sympathetic looks on their faces.

"Good morning, Ruth," Adam answered. "We're finished up inside, so the place is all yours again. I'll leave you to it. Let me know if you need any help," he added, but there was something in his tone and the way he glanced at Harry that seemed to say he knew Ruth already had all the help she'd need. Adam clapped Dimitri on the shoulder and shook Harry's hand before climbing into his car and driving away.

"I've put in an order for new windows," Dimitri told her. "Should come in tomorrow. I'll have everything fixed up before the week is out."

Once again, Harry was struck by the way her neighbors seemed to feel so protectively towards Ruth; he was fairly certain that Ruth hadn't requested the new windows, but Dimitri had known she'd need them, and rather than waiting for her to ask for his help, or leaving her to muddle through it alone, he had taken it upon himself to make arrangements for their replacement.

Ruth didn't seem to know quite what to make of this; she was grateful, certainly, but there was something in her expression that made Harry think she was perhaps a bit embarrassed, too. Asking for help didn't come easily to her, he knew.

"Thank you, Dimitri. I didn't know what I was going to do about them. How much do I owe you?"

Dimitri waved her off. "I'll send you the bill, and you send it straight to the insurance company. Let them sort it out."

For a moment she almost looked as if she were about to cry, but she took a deep breath and gave him a watery smile instead.

"Thank you, Dimitri."

"Anything for you, Ruth," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek affectionately. "If you need anything, just give me a shout. I've got some work to do up at Malcolm's, but I'll be free in a few hours if you need me."

Like Adam, he shook hands with Harry before he left. Neither man had spoken to him, nor remarked on his presence there by her side, and Harry wasn't quite sure what to make of that. Now was not the time to dwell on it, he decided. They had work to do.

"Shall we?" he asked.

Ruth nodded, and they walked into the shop side by side.

At first, they simply stood inside the shop and stared. _Mess_ didn't even come close to describing the sight that greeted them; catastrophe was more like it. Rather than allow himself to be overwhelmed, Harry gritted his teeth and forced an enthusiasm he really didn't feel.

"Bin bags?" he asked.

Ruth stared at him blankly.

"We'll need something to sweep all this into," he explained. She just nodded woodenly, and walked carefully through the detritus of her shop towards the counter. She pulled a few bags out from behind it, and retrieved two brooms from the storeroom, and they set to work. Neither one of them was humming, now.

* * *

Sam joined them after a half hour or so, and she brought Zoe with her. Zoe explained that she'd left the café in the care of another woman named Beth, giving Harry a name to go with the face he sometimes saw on the rare mornings when Zoe wasn't there to serve him breakfast. Between the four of them they got the floor of the shop cleared and the broken shelves piled up on the sidewalk out front of the shop. Harry rang Dimitri, who promised to come by and pick up the ruined shelves when he was finished at Malcolm's. Inside, Ruth was keeping a running list of everything that would need replacing, and with each item added her mood grew bleaker. The artificial cheerfulness of the two younger women had begun to grate on Harry's nerves, and from the sharpness of Ruth's silence, he assumed she felt much the same. There was a small, ungrateful part of him that wished it were just he and Ruth alone in the shop, that he could feel free to touch her, to kiss her, to offer her reassurance without wondering what Sam or Zoe might think.

His moment came when the delivery arrived; Sam and Zoe went back to clear space in the storeroom for the new flowers, and Harry and Ruth went outside to meet the driver and oversee the unloading. Using the delivery van as cover from the watchful eyes up and down the street he pressed his hand against the small of Ruth's back and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Are you all right?"

She looked up at him, and for a moment he lost himself in those luminous blue eyes he loved so well. She was exhausted, and frustrated, and perhaps a bit embarrassed, but she did not pull away from his touch.

"I just want to get this finished," she told him softly.

Any further discussion was cut short by the driver of the van, who came round with the bill of sale for Ruth to inspect and sign. That task complete, she walked back into the shop to check on the status of the storeroom and left Harry alone on the sidewalk with the delivery man.

"Doing a bit of remodeling?" the man asked, surveying the boarded-up windows.

"Something like that," Harry answered gruffly.

* * *

It took the better part of an hour to get everything unloaded from the van and settled into the storeroom. The back of the shop was a warren of shelves and baskets, and Ruth directed her three helpers with all the certainty of a field marshal. Something had changed in her, during those few minutes when Harry had stood alone out front with the delivery driver. She wouldn't meet his gaze, and she kept finding excuses not to be alone with him. As he followed her curt instructions he furiously went over everything that had happened that morning in his mind, desperately trying to find some explanation for her sudden change of mood. A certain amount of despondency or reticence on her part was to be expected, given their occupation for the day, but the rapid onset of her chilly demeanor defied reason. Something must have happened; perhaps Sam or Zoe had said something to her, but Harry couldn't fathom what it was, and Ruth wasn't helping.

Once the wedding flowers were neatly inventoried and stacked away, Ruth wiped her hands on her little half-apron and turned to Harry.

"I think you can go now, Harry. I've got this under control."

He started to protest, but fell silent when he caught the look on her face. She didn't want him here any more, it would seem. Sam and Zoe were nearby, ostensibly busy assembling a wooden display rack, but he knew they were listening to his every word.

"All right," he said finally, admitting defeat. "Call me if you need me."

She just nodded, and turned away.

* * *

For the rest of the evening Harry puttered around his house and brooded. The day had gotten off to such a wonderful start, and now he found all his hopes crumbled. The myriad ups and downs of the day jumbled together in his head, and try though he might, he couldn't quite piece it together. His relationship with Ruth had always been tenuous and changeable; he stepped closer, and she retreated, and on and on they danced, never quite ending up where he thought they would. Perhaps he didn't know her well enough to predict her behavior, yet. He couldn't believe that she was as fickle as she seemed. There had to be a reason, he told himself.

And as it turned out, there was.

Sometime that night, after the sun had set and Harry had finished his dinner, there came a gentle knock on his front door. He opened it to find Ruth standing on his doorstep, looking utterly miserable as she wrung her hands and avoided his gaze.

"Ruth," he said, not bothering to hide his surprise or his relief at seeing her there. "Please, come in."

She shook her head and shifted uneasily on her feet.

"I can't, Harry, I'm sorry. I'm not staying."

"Oh."

For a long moment she said nothing, and worry festered in the back of his mind. She looked as if she were about to cry, but before he could grab her by the hand and lead her inside, she took a deep breath.

"I can't see you any more, Harry," she told him, looking up at him with pleading eyes for a moment.

Harry's mind stuttered to a halt. "Can't-" he started to choke out a protest, but she interrupted him.

"They know. Sam and Zoe and everyone, they know, and they're laughing about it."

"Laughing? Why should they laugh?" He was completely bewildered. It didn't make any sense to him, that they should laugh or that it should bother her so much; but even as this thought occurred to him, George's face rose up in his mind, and he remembered how much she'd had to endure, all the gossip and the whisperings and the pity she hated so much. Of course it bothered her that her friends were laughing, that everyone knew she was embarking on a new relationship, but surely what they shared between them was worth a bit of discomfort. At least, it was worth it to Harry.

She shrugged. "I don't know, but they are. I won't be talked about like that, Harry. I can't stand it."

"Ruth," he reached for her, but she took a step back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her eyes shining in the darkness.

 _No, please, don't go, please don't ask this of me,_ he thought desperately, wishing there was some way he could talk her round, but before he could say another word she turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the darkness.


	17. Chapter 17

On Wednesday morning, Harry woke feeling old and tired and utterly aggrieved. The sleep he'd missed after the attack at the flower shop had caught up with him, and his every joint ached as he moved. His heart ached as well; Ruth's words still rung in his head, desperate and sad, and try though he might, he could not forget them. The prospect of seeing her this morning was more than he could bear; he didn't trust himself to keep his distance, should he run into her at the shop, but he worried what Zoe might think, should he miss breakfast at the café two mornings in a row. He worried not for his own sake; bugger the villagers and bugger their opinion of him. No, he worried for Ruth, who took their words so personally, who placed other people's concerns above her own desires every time.

Besides, he'd used the last of his bacon making breakfast (for her) on Tuesday morning.

So he showered, and shaved, and tried not to recall the sound of Ruth's breathless giggle or the feel of her lips on his cheek as he did. He dressed and drove into the village, determined to keep his distance, no matter how much he hated the very thought.

Zoe was waiting for him behind the counter, looking rather contrite.

"I wasn't sure I'd see you this morning," she said quietly as he approached. Harry heaved himself onto a stool in front of the counter, watching as she set about making his tea.

"Zoe-"

"I think we upset her yesterday, me and Sam," she rushed on. "We didn't mean anything by it, Harry, really we didn't. Sam was just saying how sweet it is, the way you've been carrying on, and how nice it is to see Ruth smiling so often."

Harry ran his hand over his face, and then back to squeeze his neck. Everything hurt, today.

"It's not your fault, Zoe," he said finally, reaching out to take the mug she offered him. "If it wasn't the two of you, it would have been someone else. Ruth is just particularly…sensitive, that's all."

"You haven't fallen out, have you?" she asked earnestly. The young woman seemed genuinely concerned, but Harry didn't know how to answer her question. Yes, they had fallen out, but how could he say that to her? He didn't want her feeling guilty, though he did harbor some resentment for the idle chatter that had gotten him into this mess.

"It'll be all right," he assured her. "She'll come round. It's been a tough few days for her, that's all. She needs some time to sort everything out." At least, that's what he hoped. The thought of never kissing Ruth again made his stomach churn and his heart clench. _We were so close,_ he thought. _So damnably close._

Zoe didn't look convinced, but she handed him his morning paper and set about making his sandwich, and Harry left her to it, going outside to sit at his favorite table.

As he read the paper Harry's eyes kept flicking towards Something Wonderful; the front door was propped open, but as Ruth had yet to replace the shelves that usually stood on either side of the door, the woman herself was nowhere to be found. She was probably inside, he mused, losing himself for a moment in contemplation about what she might be doing, how she might be feeling, what she might say if he just walked in there and pushed her up against the nearest flat surface and kissed her senseless. _There must be some way to fix this_ , he told himself, though even he could see that a good snog was likely not the answer.

His breakfast came, and as he ate his mind wandered. He had thought to put his plans regarding George into action today, before Ruth's rejection, and though he knew she would hate him meddling further, he couldn't let the opportunity pass him by. Something had to be done, and Harry felt he was the one to do it. Call it stubbornness, call it pride, call it sheer bloody-mindedness, but Harry wanted to be the one who brought George down. He wanted that satisfaction for himself. And whenever he did it, whatever the circumstances, he knew Ruth wouldn't be pleased with his interference. Might as well do it now, when she was already put out with him, he decided.

* * *

Back at the cottage, Harry made three phone calls in rapid succession, and dialed a fourth number with no small amount of apprehension. This was the call he'd been dreading more than the others, but he didn't see how he could do this without help from someone with better connections that a village copper. He took a deep breath, and placed the call.

The phone rang twice, before the man on the other end answered. Harry steeled himself, and spoke.

"Tom, it's Harry. I need a favor."

* * *

The rest of Wednesday and all of Thursday passed in silence and contemplation for Harry as he puttered around his back garden and meditated on the wisdom of his actions, not just in regard to his plan for George, but his courtship of Ruth as well. Not even a whole week had passed since their first dinner at his house, but so much had happened, and he had to admit that perhaps he had pushed too far too fast.

Being with her felt so natural, so right, and he hadn't been able to stop himself from kissing her every time he got the chance, from telling her straight out what he wanted for them. He understood her hesitation, however much it frustrated and disappointed him; she had been hurt so many times, so deeply, that the prospect of love filled her with fear, rather than hope. He had tried to be considerate of that fear, but he had to admit to himself that he had not protected her heart as well as he could have. Involving Sam and Tariq in his wooing of Ruth had been foolish, and he had taken no pains to hide his affection for her when they spoke together each morning on the street. Given another chance he was sure he could be more careful, more discreet, sure he could do whatever she wanted, so long as he got the chance to hold her in his arms once again.

No other woman had ever inspired such unthinking devotion, such unflinching acquiescence in Harry Pearce. Proud and stubborn to a fault, he had always been the one to set the terms of his relationships, and he balked at the idea of being forced to hide his affections. For Ruth, though, he was more than willing. For Ruth, he would do anything.

She had him well and truly snared.

Friday passed in a flurry of activity as he prepared for the little meeting he'd arranged, and tried desperately to distract himself from the fact that he hadn't seen Ruth in two days. It was the longest he'd gone without speaking to her since he moved to the village, and he was forced to admit that without her presence, the prospect of staying in the village was intolerable. If his fledgling relationship with Ruth really was over, he might just take that long holiday after all. He could even sell the cottage, now that it was fixed up, and not have to worry about finding someone to rent it. Before he made his mind up in that regard he wanted to speak with Ruth, and resolved to stop in at Something Wonderful on Saturday morning. He'd been planning to do that before everything went pear-shaped anyway; it was time to start thinking about planting the back garden, and he needed Ruth's help.

So he watched the clock, and fretted, and waited for eight p.m. and the little meeting he'd arranged.

* * *

When Harry arrived at the pub on Friday night he was somewhat alarmed to find that most of his co-conspirators had already arrived. They were ensconced in a secluded table at the back of the pub, each of them with a drink in hand. Adam and Ros and Malcolm were all there, along with a bespectacled man he didn't recognize, whom Malcolm introduced as Colin. Apparently Colin had worked with Malcolm on the development of the mysterious software that had left the older man so considerably well-off, and Malcolm had insisted he be brought in. Harry apologized for not arriving in time to buy the first round and assured them all he would buy the next.

"What's this all about then?" Ros asked, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously.

"If you don't mind, Ros, we're still one person short. I'd rather wait so I only have to explain this once."

She scowled at him, but Adam gave her a little nudge with his elbow, and she held her tongue.

Harry glanced around at the four of them, wondering for the thousandth time if he'd done the right thing in assembling this little posse. Ros he'd called because she had known Ruth for so long, and because she seemed to have most of the details on the George situation. Adam had been included because he had an even temper and seemed to possess a strange talent for keeping Ros in line. Malcolm would be an invaluable resource with his technical skills. All three he felt could be trusted to be discreet, and to keep their efforts here tonight a secret. He hoped he wouldn't find that trust misplaced.

"Quite the motley crew you have here, Harry," a voice spoke from somewhere behind his shoulder, and Harry heaved a sigh before he rose to shake hands with the newcomer.

Tom Quinn was a handsome, if somewhat arrogant man, and he had once been the most promising young detective in Harry's department. He had gone undercover to infiltrate a drugs smuggling ring three years before, and the experience had left him changed. Before he went in, Tom had been loyal and single-minded in his pursuit of justice, but when he came out, he was suspicious, jaded, and volatile. Towers had deemed him a risk, and given him the sack, against Harry's vehement objections. Though Harry had once been something of a mentor to Tom, the younger man now viewed him with barely concealed contempt. But he had come, and Harry was grateful to him for that.

"Everyone, this is Tom Quinn. Tom, this is Adam Carter, Ros Myers, Malcolm Wynn-Jones, and Colin…" his voice trailed off as he realized he didn't know Colin's surname.

"Wells," Colin supplied helpfully.

Tom quirked his eyebrow at Harry, his expression very clearly saying _what in the hell have you got me into, old man?_

"Can I get you a beer?" Harry asked, but Tom just shook his head and took a seat, sprawling in his chair as he sized up the villagers sat opposite him. Ros bristled under his gaze, and Harry prudently stepped in before either of them had a chance to open their mouths and blow the whole operation before they'd even started.

"Tom was a detective with me back in London, and now works as a private investigator. I've called you all here because I think we have a common interest in seeing George put behind bars, and I think that between the five of us, we can make that happen."

"I don't have a common interest," Tom said. "I don't know this George and I don't owe you a damn thing."

This was exactly the sort of response Harry had expected, if he were honest; Tom was still angry with the way things had shaken out, and he blamed Harry. But he had come, and Harry took that as a point in his favor.

"You'll be paid. I should think that would make it interesting enough for you."

Tom laughed, and though the sound of it was harsh, he raised no further objections. _So far, so good,_ Harry thought.

"We know that George has hurt Ruth. We know that he's the one who destroyed her shop. What we lack is evidence. I think that we can gather that evidence, and with Tom's help, maybe some more besides. Men like George rarely hurt just one person; there could be more victims out there, more crimes we don't know about, and the more information we have, the better our chances. What do you say? Will you help me?"

Malcolm stared at his hands, clasped together on the table. Colin stared at Malcolm. Tom stared at Harry. Adam stared at Ros.

"Hell, yes," Ros said.

"Good," Harry answered.


	18. Chapter 18

The meeting went well on Friday evening, with Harry assigning each person a task, and each of them expressing a level of enthusiasm for their endeavor he hardly dared hope for. Even Tom, as cynical and sarcastic as he was, seemed convinced that they could catch George out, and that strengthened Harry's resolve more than any of the assurances offered by the others. This newfound sense of hope and purpose sustained Harry through that long Friday night, and when Saturday dawned, he rose confident and ready to face Ruth for the first time since she'd stood on his doorstep and dashed his dreams for their future. She was too lovely, too utterly wonderful, and the way they felt together was too precious for Harry to just let it go without a fight. He would be kind, he would be considerate, but he would not walk away from her until he was absolutely sure it was what she really wanted.

After all, if she really didn't want to be with him, surely she wouldn't have kissed him so passionately, surely she wouldn't have spoken to him so openly, and surely she wouldn't have accepted his invitation of a place to stay. It was fear that held her back, he knew, and Harry was determined to do everything in his power to set that fear to rest.

On Saturday morning, he walked into the village.

This was one of those rare days when it was Beth, not Zoe, who met him at the café. Beth was a pretty thing, with short blonde hair and a sweet round face, but she had a tendency to swear like a sailor and a sharp, keen wit that Harry quite enjoyed.

"God, don't you ever sleep?" she asked him, stifling a yawn as she turned to the kettle behind her. This had been a little joke between them since the first time they'd met, when Beth (who on that particular day appeared to be very, _very_ hungover) had demanded to know what sort of person came into a café at 7:30 on a Saturday morning and asked for a newspaper to go with their breakfast.

"Just wait until you get old," Harry told her with a lopsided grin. "You'll find yourself so thankful to be living that sleep loses all of its appeal."

She turned her head to stare at him over her shoulder.

"Someone's in a good mood."

"It's a beautiful day."

Beth actually groaned as she handed him his mug and his paper. "Go outside," she scolded him good-naturedly. "Your enthusiasm is exhausting."

Harry did as she ordered, and found himself once again sitting in the sun. As he gazed down the high street he saw a large station wagon parked out front of Something Wonderful; he didn't recognize the vehicle, and he felt his hackles rise at the sight. He wondered who it could be, and what it could be, and if Ruth was all right, but he needn't have worried. As he watched she emerged from inside the shop, carrying a large box balanced on one hip, and opened the hatch at the back of the car before depositing the box inside. She disappeared back into the shop, and returned a moment later, carrying another box. It was then that Harry remembered about the wedding scheduled for the afternoon, and he found himself suddenly worried that she'd disappear off to the farm before he got the chance to speak with her. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, tucked a few notes under the mug of tea, and rushed away from the table, determined not to let this opportunity pass him by.

He reached the shop around the same time Ruth was walking out with a third box, and as he approached her, he could see that she was not in the best of moods. The timing was lamentable, but he was already here, and there was no way he was going back to the café without at least saying hello.

"Good morning, Ruth."

She very nearly dropped the box she was carrying, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth cardboard; without thinking, Harry lunged forward and caught the box in his own hands. They straightened up together, Ruth's hands on the side of the box and Harry's hands underneath it, while above it their eyes met for the first time in three days. Her lovely blue eyes were sad, so impossibly sad, and Harry silently prayed that he could find the words to make her smile again.

"Harry, I'm really busy this morning, I can't-" she was pulling away from him, hauling the box toward the back of the car, but Harry was a man on a mission.

"Can I help?" he interrupted her.

Ruth stowed the box neatly in the rear of the vehicle, and peered around the open hatch to stare at him. Doubt warred with hope so openly on her face that it nearly broke Harry's heart to see it; every fiber of his being screamed at him to go to her, to wrap his arms around her, to never let her go, but he resisted.

"No," she told him finally. "No. I can handle it." She started to walk away, back into the shop, and Harry followed her.

"Where's Sam?" he asked, looking around the shop curiously. It appeared Ruth had been busy, over the last three days. Dimitri had been as good as his word, and the windows had been replaced. The shelves were all back on the walls, though he saw with some sorrow that most were still bare. The flower stands were full, though they held nothing more exotic than daisies and roses, and he remembered the greenhouse she kept out back of the shop. These flowers were all hers then, he realized; perhaps she hadn't had the time to have anything else brought in. She was rebuilding, though, and he felt a surge of pride at her accomplishment. She was a remarkable woman, was Ruth.

A remarkable but rather harried-looking woman, who turned around at his question with an exasperated expression on her face. "Food poisoning," she answered shortly, and without further explanation she disappeared back into the storeroom, no doubt in search of another box.

Left alone in the half-empty shop, Harry felt himself at loose ends, unsure what to do with himself, when she was telling him to go and his heart was telling him to stay. If Sam was ill, and unable to help Ruth with the wedding today, perhaps this was the opportunity he needed to set things to rights between them. But would she let him?

 _Stop worrying, man_ , he told himself firmly, and without further hesitation, he followed her into the storeroom.

He found her quickly enough, struggling with another box. Without a word, he bent to help her, and once again, their eyes met over the box. Her shoulders sagged with despair, as if she were resigning herself to his presence and his relentless assistance.

"Let me help you," Harry said quietly.

It seemed he was forever destined to be saying those words to this woman. Since the very first day they met, he had felt compelled to lend his hand to her, and she had felt compelled to decline it. What a pair they made.

"I can't ask you to do that, Harry," she answered with a sigh, looking very much as if she were about to cry. "I've got to be up there all day and you-"

"Have nothing to do but putter around my garden. I'd like to help, if you'd let me. And I'd quite like to see this famous farm everyone's always going on about." He added this last with a little smile, hoping to ease the tension between them.

The weight of her gaze fell heavy on his shoulders; what was it about her eyes, he wondered, that pulled him in and held him so? He'd never known another woman whose eyes were that shade of bluish grey, the color of a stormy sea; he'd never known another woman who could say so much with just a look, whose heart beat so fiercely that it could not be contained, but instead burst forth from every line and plane of her beautiful face.

"Harry," she said his name softly, and it fell from her lips like a prayer, a plea for something he couldn't yet fathom. What was going through her mind? Was she wavering on the edge of giving in, of falling back into his arms? Did she regret ending things between them before they'd truly begun? Or was it something worse; did she really want him gone, out of her shop, out of her life? He didn't have the answers to those questions, and without them, he didn't quite know how to respond to her. There was no rulebook here, no sure and simple list of regulations marked "Dealing with Ruth." He would have to take a risk, or lose her completely.

"Let me help you," he said again, taking the box from her arms, looking to her for permission.

There was a long pause before she spoke again.

"Ok."

* * *

Between the two of them, they had the last of the boxes loaded in ten minutes, and set off on their way. As Ruth pulled the car out onto the lane and away from the shop, Harry spared a glance at the café; Beth had already cleared away his table. He realized glumly that he had once again drawn attention to himself, leaving the café like that; no doubt Beth would mention it to someone, ask if anyone knew where he'd got off to. There was no use worrying over it now, however. Now he was with Ruth, heading off to the farm and a wedding, the whole day spread out before them, full of possibilities both wonderful and heartbreaking.

Ruth's hands were tight on the wheel, knuckles white from the strain, every line of her body rigid and tense as she drove on unspeaking. It seemed to Harry that he had his work cut out for him today, and not just with the flowers.

"That's an awful lot of boxes you've got back there," he said, trying hard to be pleasant and make small talk, as if he hadn't sat in her kitchen just a week ago and told her how wonderful he thought she was, as if she were just a friend and he had never kissed her like his like depended on it.

She looked at him askance, as if she were trying to decide whether or not he was completely mad.

"I told you, they've spared no expense. I've got bouquets for the bride and her friends, I've got boutonnieres for the groom and _his_ friends, I've got arrangements for the tables, I've got rose petals for the flower girl. And then they want arrangements on the chairs at the end of every row for the service. And _then_ ," the color rose in her cheeks as she spoke, listing off not just the wares piled haphazardly in the back of the car but also, he realized, the tasks they would have to preform once they arrived, "they've got this bloody big arch they want me to cover with chrysanthemums and dahlias and bloody baby's breath. It's going to take an age, and the wedding's set for 2:00."

"An arch?" Harry repeated, trying to picture it in his head but not quite making the jump.

"A bloody arch," she confirmed with an irritated little toss of her head.

"Right then."

* * *

The farm was as lovely as Sam had said; as they drove down a long, winding dirt track Harry could clearly see acre after acre of gently rolling green hills. They drove past horse pastures and hay fields, and thickets of short, stumpy trees. Nameless flowers grew in clumps beside the track, and far off to the left the old white farmhouse loomed, glorious in its shabbiness. On and on they drove, until they rounded a final curve and the wedding venue came into view.

They had driven to the top of a rise, the land falling sharply away into nothingness before them, the roiling sea stretching out beyond as far as the eye could see. Two ancient, gnarled oak trees stood imposing and steadfast near the edge, and a platoon of white-shirted party planners were busy setting out chairs in neat rows before them. A huge red barn stood perhaps two hundred meters away, its vast doors open to let in the breeze while still more workers trooped in and out, no doubt arranging tables and food and sound equipment within. Ruth pulled her car around to park behind the barn next to the catering van, and took a deep breath.

"Here we go," she said.

And with that, she was out of the car, leaving a slightly bemused Harry to fumble along in her wake.


	19. Chapter 19

At Ruth's direction Harry grabbed a box and carried it into the barn; he wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but his conception of the barn-turned-reception-hall was certainly nothing like the reality. The interior of the barn was somehow both modern and rustic; the smooth-sanded beams of the rafters high overhead were exposed, and strings of fairly lights wove intricately between them. Twenty round, heavy wooden tables, each encircled by eight matching chairs, were neatly arranged around the front of the room, while the back had been cleared into a makeshift dancefloor. A burly man in blue jeans and a t-shirt with some unfathomable slogan splashed across the front was fiddling with a pile of technology heaped on a table in the far corner of the room, and behind him stood a tall set of sound speakers. The caterers were busy setting up the bar and buffet tables, and an anxious looking woman in a smart blue dress was wandering around, alternately shouting commands and casting worried looks at the clipboard she clutched in her perfectly manicured hands.

"Oh, thank God, the flowers," the woman crowed when she saw them; Harry supposed she must have known Ruth, since the plain cardboard boxes they were carrying gave no indication as to what was inside.

"Hello, Bernadette," Ruth answered politely.

"Is this them, then?" Bernadette asked, motioning with her clipboard to the boxes.

"These are the flowers for the tables. I thought we'd go ahead and get everything sorted in here first, and then we can start on the outside."

At the mention of the word _we_ Bernadette's eyes had flicked briefly to Harry, and he got the sense that in a single moment she had assessed him, and deemed him to be utterly irrelevant.

"Yes, yes, that's fine," she waved her hands, and Harry worried briefly that she might lose control of her clipboard and send it flying at their faces. Mercifully, she managed to hold on, but only just. "Just see you get it done quickly, we're already behind schedule."

And with that she left them, meandering away to terrorize the caterers instead.

"She's a treat, isn't she?" Harry asked with a little lopsided grin.

"Be nice," Ruth admonished him lightly. There was a sparkle in her eyes, just a hint of the playful side of her he'd come to treasure during those brief moments when she let her guard down with him, and Harry was grateful to see it now. He still wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten here, but he was determined to enjoy every moment of it. And when he got back to the village, he planned to pay a visit to Sam to thank her profusely for managing to come down with such a fortuitously timed case of food poisoning.

"If you'll just set that down here, Harry, we can get started," Ruth said authoritatively, placing the box she carried on the floor at her feet and opening it up. Harry did as ordered, and lifted the flaps on his own box. Inside he found five medium-sized glass vases, already filled with bouquets of pale pink chrysanthemums. The boxes had been gently packed with soft towels, designed to keep the vases upright, and the boxes themselves were deep enough to keep from damaging the delicate blooms. He reached inside and gently lifted one vase, discovering as he did so that Ruth had also taken the time to wrap a pink ribbon around each vase. The work had been carefully done, and he cradled the vase tenderly in his hands, wondering how long it had taken to arrange them.

"Just put one in the center of each table, and when these boxes are empty, we'll go fetch the others," Ruth instructed him. Harry nodded once to show he understood, and set to work.

The caterers had already prepared the tables, each one draped with a long white runner, each with eight impeccable white and silver place settings arranged around the edge just so. The flowers provided a pale, pleasant splash of color, and combined with the warm tones of the wood-beamed walls and polished floor, the overall effect was rather charming. Harry didn't mention this to Ruth; her mood had bounced from sad to irritated to delighted so quickly in the time they'd spent together this morning that he was reluctant to say anything all, lest she change yet again and unleash a remark as unpleasant as "I can't see you anymore" on him. So he set the centerpieces carefully on the tables, and fetched more boxes from the car, and smiled at her when he caught her eye, and said not a word.

The tables were finished rather quickly, at which point Ruth delved into a fifth box, rummaging around inside it for a moment before emerging with yet more flowers, and a spool of ribbon. These she passed off to Harry before digging around in the box once more, coming up with a pair of scissors and two small glass jars, of the kind Harry's grandmother had used to preserve the vegetables she grew in her garden. Ruth nodded towards a table set up near the entrance of the barn; the guestbook had been laid out there, and next to it stood a small wooden chalkboard sign of the variety so popular amongst a certain sort of young person at the time. The couple's names had been written on the sign in an elaborate script, the letters of one name flowing neat into the next, with a border of hearts and flowers drawn around the edges. The sign was a bit much, to Harry's eye, but he followed Ruth to the table, and followed her instructions as she set the jars down, one on either end of the table, and then gently tucked the flowers inside. Ruth used the ribbon to tie neat little bows around each jar, smiling softly to herself as she worked.

She was in her element here, certain of her role and quite happy to be working, and Harry felt very lucky indeed to be by her side while she did. Every movement of her hands was gentle and sure, and he couldn't help but remember the way those hands had felt, resting lightly on his chest.

* * *

Once they had completed their tasks inside the barn, Harry and Ruth trooped outside with all their empty boxes, and stood for a moment in the late morning sunshine. It was a beautiful day for a wedding, Harry mused as he took in his surroundings; rain had fallen the day before, and though the ground was damp, it was drying quickly, and the remaining clouds skidded white and fluffy across a brilliant blue sky, the sudden appearance of the sun drenching everything in a bright, almost surreal sort of light that made the view of the trees and the sea beyond seem more like a postcard than a moment stolen from real life.

Harry was just about to turn to Ruth, to comment on the loveliness of the scene (and the loveliness of her pale skin in that soft blue dress), when they were once again accosted by Bernadette the wedding planner.

"Have you taken the bouquets out to the bride yet?" she demanded, huffing slightly as she struggled to make her way towards them, the sharp heels of her stilettos digging into the soft turf with every step.

"I thought we'd tackle the arch first," Ruth said mildly, shooting Harry a glance that seemed to say _if she falls, please don't laugh._

Bernadette looked outraged at the very thought. "The photographer is already with the wedding party, taking pictures while they get dressed. They _need_ those flowers!" She spoke with some heat, as if they were discussing some sort of life-saving mission rather than the delivery of some flowers.

"I suppose we could-"

"Do!" Bernadette all but snarled before stumbling away, muttering to herself and her clipboard.

Ruth mumbled something under her breath that sounded unladylike indeed, and Harry faked a cough to cover the sound of his own incredulous laughter.

* * *

They had to drive to reach the guest house where the wedding party was knee-deep in preparations; as they drove, Ruth pointed out the sights around them, naming off the various kinds of trees and flowers they saw. Harry was quite charmed by her, not just by her knowledge of the local flora, but by the way she remained utterly unfazed by Bernadette's offensive behavior.

"She's horrible, but she gets the job done," Ruth explained when he mentioned this to her. "The trick is just to smile and nod, and then do what you were going to do anyway."

 _Sage advice,_ Harry thought.

"Guest house" was perhaps an understatement; Ruth pulled the station wagon to a halt in front of a rambling, two-story stone cottage, surrounded by a long, low wooden porch that ran the full length of the building. On a corner of the porch two silver-haired men in black trousers and smart white shirts were seated around a small glass-topped table, smoking cigarettes and talking softly to one another.

"Good morning, Mr. Greely," Ruth said, giving them a little nod as she went around to open the hatch at the back of the car.

"Good morning to you, Mrs. Evershed," one of the men answered with a wan little smile.

"Lovely day for it," she said conversationally, dragging out a box and handing it off to Harry.

Mr. Greely just grunted, and took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Those the flowers, then?" the other man asked.

Ruth straightened up, cradling a box on her hip. "They are. Bernadette said the photographer was asking for them."

"Suppose that means we'll be wanted upstairs," Mr. Greely said plaintively.

"Come on, Roger," his companion told him in a falsely cheerful voice, stubbing out his cigarette rather more forcefully than was necessary. "It won't be so bad."

Roger Greely gave him a look that showed his disagreement with that statement quite plainly, but he allowed himself to be herded back into the cottage all the same.

"They're the fathers," Ruth explained to Harry as they made their way up towards the house. "Mr. Greely is the father of the bride. I imagine today is rather bittersweet for him."

Harry nodded, thinking of his own daughter. Catherine was a lovely and vibrant and compassionate young woman, and he was firmly convinced that there wasn't a man alive who deserved the honor of marrying her. He felt a certain sympathy for Mr. Greely in that moment, but wisely decided not to mention this to Ruth. In his experience women and men seemed to hold different opinions on the matter of weddings, and their relationship was too tenuous for him to embark on a discussion of such differences with her now.

Ruth led the way up the stairs, heading for what she'd referred to as "the bridal suite." She knocked gently on the door, and in a moment she and Harry were ushered into a sea of femininity and tulle.

The bride and her eight (eight!) companions were all in various states of undress, and they all seemed utterly unperturbed by the arrival of a mysterious, box-wielding man in their midst. Upon further inspection, Harry realized that the glasses of champagne they clutched in their hands might have had something to do with their rather blasé attitudes. Several stylists were gathered around them, fixing hair and make up and chatting away, and the photographer, a sharp-faced woman in a pair of tight black trousers, flitted around the edges of the activity, snapping away happily.

"Oh, the flowers!" one of the young ladies crooned when she caught sight of them; given the fact that she recognized Ruth, and that she was seated in the very middle of the room, and that all the others seemed to be clustered around her, Harry supposed she was the bride.

"Good morning, Madeline," Ruth said, giving the young woman a soft, sweet smile that quite melted Harry's heart. Introductions were made hastily, each name registering only for a moment before it was immediately forgotten. The bouquets had been arranged in neat plastic racks inside the boxes, designed to keep them upright and Ruth handed them out one at a time, instructing each girl to hold the flowers gently while she tied ribbons around their stems. All the while the photographer moved amongst them, catching each girl's delighted smile and each whispered observation. Madeline was last, pristine in a thin white satin chemise that fell to mid-thigh. Her shiny blonde hair had been artfully piled on top of her head, a few errant curls allowed to escape and frame her round face. Once again Harry was reminded of his own daughter, and with a pang he realized that it likely wouldn't be too long until she was the one smiling that knowing smile while all her friends oohed and ahhed over how lovely she was.

The photographer snuck up behind Harry, pointing her camera at the bride as she asked him, "Do you two have any words of wisdom for the bride to be?"

The girls giggled as they glanced from Harry to Ruth, clearly assuming that the pair of them were happily married and had been for some time. Ruth blushed furiously and refused to look up from the ribbon she was fiddling with; Harry for his part saw this moment as an opportunity, and considered his words carefully before he spoke.

"Don't be afraid," he said finally. "Love is a beautiful and wonderful thing, and you should never be afraid to face it, and you should never be afraid to fight for it. Don't be afraid to ask for what you want, and don't be afraid to make sacrifices for the one you love."

This earned him a teary smile from Madeline and a long, searching look from Ruth.

* * *

The groom and his friends were much more reserved, and the passing out of the boutonnieres took significantly less time than the bouquets had done. Once more Harry and Ruth piled into the station wagon, and set off for the barn. As they drove, Harry got the feeling that Ruth's mind was churning feverishly, the way it so often did, and he gave her time to think, trying not to smile each time he felt her gaze fall heavy on his shoulders. He hoped she was thinking about what he'd said, and he hoped his comments hadn't been too much.

At the barn most of the work was done, and as he clambered from the station wagon, Harry took a moment to absorb the sight before him.

A large wire arch ( _a bloody arch)_ had been erected to serve as a sort of entrance to the space where the actual wedding was to take place; the guests would pass beneath it and down a long white carpet ( _that's a terrible idea_ , he thought as he stared at it, _it's going to be absolutely ruined by the end of the day)_ to the rows of pristine white chairs. The chairs all faced the two oak trees, trees which time had bowed until their uppermost branches very nearly intertwined. A small wooden stage had been set up directly in front of the trees, so that the couple would be framed by the trees above and the sea beyond. It made for a rather stunning sight, but beside him Harry heard Ruth sigh mournfully.

"They had to have a bloody arch," she said, shaking her head.

"Oh, come now, it won't be so bad," Harry chided her gently. "Let's get to it."

And so they did.

First bouquets had to be fastened to the chairs at the end of each row, all the way down the aisle, and then the real work could begin. The arch itself was constructed of some sort of mesh, with small holes through which the flowers could be attached. The plan was to fit the stems of each flower through those little holes, from top to bottom all the way round, so that the guests, and then eventually the bride herself, would walk beneath a wall of flowers, and never see the wire. It was a painstaking task, given the size of the arch and the sheer number of flowers that needed to be woven into the mesh; they would never accomplish it on their own, so when Ruth went to wrangle up a stepladder she also roped several of the party planners in as assistants. Even with the help it took several hours, though they stopped around midday for a quick lunch of sandwiches and weak tea. Harry was grateful for even those paltry offerings, having skipped his breakfast entirely to join Ruth on this little adventure.

Finally, at a quarter past one, Ruth placed the last sprig of baby's breath and gave an audible sigh of relief. Without thinking Harry reached out his hand to help her descend from the ladder, and she took it without reservation, her small, warm hand folding neatly into his own. When both of her feet were firmly planted on the ground, Harry found he didn't want to release her, and she seemed in no particular hurry to separate from him; she just stood there, smiling up at him shyly. Her cheeks were ruddy from the sun and there was mud on the toes of her boots, and Harry thought she was quite the loveliest thing he'd ever seen in his life. He leaned towards her to tell her so, and maybe to kiss her as he'd longed to do for three days now, but it simply was not to be.

"Oh, thank God, I thought you'd never finish," Bernadette huffed as she picked her way towards them. Harry had never been less happy to see a person in his entire life, and he scowled at her as Ruth slipped her hand away from his and took a step back, running her fingers through her windswept hair.

* * *

The wedding started at 2:00 exactly, and went off without a hitch. Ruth had explained to Harry that they would need to stay through the ceremony, in case any of the bouquets or boutonnieres met an untimely end before the photographer got all the shots she wanted, and they would have to wait out the reception as well, so they could collect the vases from the tables when everything was over. When he'd offered his help earlier in the day Harry hadn't quite realized what he was signing up for, and as he leaned up against the side of the barn with Ruth, watching the festivities from a respectful distance, he had to admit to himself that he was already quite tired, and the idea of sitting through the reception was not appealing in the least.

Except he had Ruth for company, and that made him forget the sheen of sweat on his brow and the complaints from his dodgy knee and the feeling of intense disgust that welled up inside him every time his eyes fell on Bernadette.

"The caterers have a little area set up behind the barn, so they can rest and grab a bite to eat," Ruth told him quietly as he watched the nervous groom kiss his barefoot bride amidst thunderous applause. "We can have a little snack, and rest our feet for a bit. It won't be so bad. I imagine the place will clear out the moment they run out of booze."

Harry nodded, turning his head to look at her. She'd pulled her hair back, exposing the long, slender curve of her neck and her little silver necklace, sparkling against her pale skin. She wore the same navy dress she'd worn to dinner at his house the week before, and it suited her just as well today as it had then. Perhaps this reception wouldn't be so bad, after all.

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The party got into full swing around 3:00, after all the photographs had been taken and the wine had been opened. From their little table, hidden behind the barn and shaded by the trees, Harry and Ruth could hear the revelry coming from inside, but were mercifully shielded from the view of the guests. They chatted quietly to one another, sitting so close together that their knees and elbows brushed occasionally. While they spoke Ruth relaxed, leaning back in her chair and cradling a pilfered glass of wine while Harry sipped a bottle of beer and tried to make her laugh.

They spent a pleasant afternoon that way, and as seven o'clock approached, an idea came to Harry.

It seemed to him that the party was winding down; the guests had been drinking heavily for four hours, all the food had long since been eaten, and the music flowing out through the open doors of the barn had grown gradually slower and softer. Harry deposited his beer on the table, and rose from his chair.

"What do you say we go have a look at the party? Perhaps it's time to gather up your things and be on our way."

Ruth looked a little disappointed, but nodded her agreement.

Together they trooped back into the barn, and stood in the doorway for a moment, smiling as they looked around. The guests had thinned out considerably; a few couples, the bride and groom included, twirled somewhat haphazardly on the dancefloor, while all across the room little clusters of people here and there sat laughing and chatting animatedly, drinks in hand. Nearby Harry saw a young mother cradling a sleeping toddler and rocking gently in time to the music. Now was his chance.

Harry mustered his courage and extended his hand to Ruth as he asked, "May I have this dance?" He held his breath while he watched her face, wondering if this was it, if he'd put his foot in it for the last time.

With a soft smile, she reached out, and took his hand in hers. Harry led her to the dancefloor, feeling as if his feet were floating off the ground.

The music changed as they reached their destination; the song was still slow and soft, and Harry couldn't help but grin as she folded herself against him. He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her close, and cradled her hand, still clutched tightly in his own, against his chest. After a moment they found their rhythm, swaying back and forth as the music washed over them, and Ruth gave a soft sigh before nestling her cheek against him.

"You look beautiful tonight," Harry whispered, and when she hummed, he felt the sound reverberate through his chest, lighting him up with a joy the likes of which he'd never known.

"Thank you," she murmured, leaning her head back to look up at him with shining eyes. "For today. Thank you for coming with me, and thank you for being so…wonderful."

Words deserted him in that moment as they danced, and once again he took a chance. He leaned down and slowly, softly, gently brushed his lips against her own. _I love you_ , he thought.

"You're welcome," he said breathlessly, his words ghosting across her lips before he kissed her again.

As Harry and Ruth danced, and kissed, and forgot all their troubles, the exhausted bride watched them over her new husband's shoulder, and she smiled. Madeline could only hope that one day, when she and Greg were older and wiser, they would still look at one another the way that couple did, that they would still dance and kiss and dream, together.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: This chapter is rated M for shenanigans, so please be warned. I'm not sure if I'll reclassify the entire fic, it seems a shame to do so for the sake of one chapter. Perhaps I will at a later date, if Harry and Ruth continue to feel a bit naughty.**

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They rode in a companionable silence in the darkness of the early evening, Harry behind the wheel at his own insistence. Ruth had put in a hard day's work, and he firmly believed that she had earned the chance to lean her head back against the window and rest. He had other reasons, as well, though he did not give them voice, did not tell her that he wanted to drive because he needed something to distract him, lest he spend the entirety of their thirty minute trip staring at her lovely face and wishing he could hold her. No, he decided, best keep that particular thought to himself.

In the meantime, Ruth seemed to be doing enough staring for the both of them. He'd glance over at her every now and again, and every time he did, he found her glorious eyes focused on his face, her fingertips pressed lightly against her lips and her brow furrowed slightly as though she were thinking very hard indeed. He could only guess what was running through her mind; his own thoughts were overwhelmed by the recollections of her body, soft and gentle in his arms as they danced, and her lips, warm and hungry pressed against his own as they kissed.

 _I can't see you again,_ she'd told him, but her reasons for that injunction seemed flimsy at best, and deep in his heart he hoped he'd won her round today, hoped he had convinced her with word and deed that what they shared was worth the price of a little gossip. Their neighbors would get used to the idea of them, in time, and the whispers would die down, and it would just be him and Ruth, blissfully happy and wrapped up in each other.

He hoped.

On he drove, pondering Ruth and everything that had happened between them from the moment they first met, standing by the hedge out front of her house. From the very beginning he'd felt such a connection to her, felt drawn to this bright, brilliant woman as a moth to a flame, and the depth of his regard for her seemed at once as inevitable as it was shocking. That she had returned those feelings, that she appeared to feel the same pull towards him that he felt for her seemed like nothing short of a miracle.

As they neared their quiet lane, Ruth reached out a trembling hand and placed it lightly on his thigh, just above his knee, her fingers giving him a gentle squeeze for a moment before resting there, warm and full of promise. Harry's heart leapt in his chest; always before it had been him, reaching for her, kissing her, touching her, leading her, but now she was the one taking the initiative, she was the one offering him something more, and that simple touch was enough to nearly drive him mad with desire for her.

Still they sat in silence, his hands on the wheel and her hand on his leg, both of them lost in a tangled web of hopes and fears and desperate longings, neither of them willing to say a word. With every passing second they drew nearer their destination, and Harry cast about anxiously for something to say, some way to keep from having to leave her company, once they arrived back home. This day had been charmed, a welcome respite from the chaos of the last few weeks, a chance to see how well they worked together, how easily they understood one another, how unaccountably linked they had become, throughout the time they had known one another. He hated to see it end, and he hated the thought of spending the night alone, knowing all the while that she was so close by.

What could he say? Did he dare invite her round to his for a nightcap? The hour hadn't yet grown so late as to make such a suggestion improper, but surely she would know what direction his thoughts were heading; would she blanch at such a blatant proposition? Perhaps he could walk her to the door, as a gentleman should, and perhaps once there he would kiss her good night, and the brush of his lips against hers coupled with the starlight and the soft sound of the wind in the trees would be enough to embolden her, and perhaps she would be the one to ask _him_ to come inside.

He quite liked that idea; letting her set her own pace was much more appealing than letting him run the risk of appearing boorish and needy. As he turned the car into the lane and approached her little cottage, he couldn't help smiling to himself, couldn't hide the pleasure he felt at the turn the day had taken. He pulled into her drive, parked the car, and reached out, placing his hand over her own where it rested on his thigh, and turned to give her a warm, open smile.

"Home again," he said softly.

Ruth's eyes were focused on their hands, her gaze unreadable as she sat and stared at where their fingers interlaced together. Harry's heart raced as he waited for her to speak, to shatter the stillness of the moment, as he waited for her to either lead him onward or cut him off entirely.

"Come inside?" she asked finally in a timid voice, raising her eyes to look up at him bashfully through lowered eyelashes.

Time seem to freeze, as they sat there together, eyes glued to one another, the pair of them barely breathing. Harry couldn't remember a time when he'd ever wanted any woman this badly; he knew what it was to long for release, to long for comfort, but to long for one specific woman, to need her and only her and more than his next breath, was a strange and exhilarating revelation. _Come inside?_ He could no more deny her than he could reach into his chest and remove his own beating heart. _Yes, a thousand times yes,_ he thought.

"I'd love to," he said quietly.

Surely such an earth-shattering declaration should be accompanied by the sound of trumpets and a chorus of angels, he mused to himself as he lifted her hand to his lips and gently placed a kiss there, before turning away to leave the car. He walked around and opened her door for her, certain that as he gave her his hand and helped her to her feet she must surely be able to hear the sound of his heart pounding.

They walked towards her house together, their fingers intertwined and their hearts beating in time with one another, each of them watching out of their corner of their eye, looking for some sign that their partner was not as eager to continue on this journey, neither finding any.

She unlocked the door and they stepped inside together, into the cool and quiet. Well, perhaps not quiet; at the sound of the door opening Fidget had come barreling round the corner from the kitchen to twine himself around Ruth's ankles and mewl up at her pitifully.

"Oh, poor love," Ruth crooned softly, letting go of Harry's hand so she could bend down and lift the little creature in her arms. Fidget stopped his protestations at once, and instead purred blissfully, all the while rubbing his face against Ruth's cheek. Harry smiled at the pair of them as he closed the door behind him; she absolutely turned to mush whenever Fidget came around, and Harry found the sight of her fussing over the little cat completely charming.

"Sometimes I think you like him more than you like me," Harry observed wryly, coming to stand behind her and wrapping a gentle arm around her waist, pulling her close so he could leave a trail of small, promising kisses along the delicate column of her neck. He held her with one hand flat against her stomach, pressing her back against him so that their bodies curved together.

"Hush you," she chided him, her tone mild and surprisingly even, given the way he could feel her trembling in his embrace. "You've had me all day, it's his turn now."

 _I haven't had you at all,_ Harry thought, _not yet._

Harry was waiting for her to pull away, to offer him some tea, to slow things down between them, but she did none of those things; Ruth leaned back in his arms, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, offering him that much more access to her soft, smooth skin. She hummed contentedly as he kissed her, and Harry was suddenly struck by the thought that the sound was essentially the same as the purring noise currently coming from the happy little cat in her arms. He didn't mean to laugh at her, but he simply couldn't contain himself, and the sound burst forth from him unbidden.

"What is it?" she asked, suddenly all concerned, gently dropping Fidget on the floor so she could turn in his arms and stare up him, her luminous eyes confused and slightly hurt that he should laugh during such a tender moment. Harry slid his arms around her waist, clasping his hands together at the small of her back and pulling her close once more.

"You were purring," he told her, still chuckling.

Her mouth opened in an expression of mock outrage, but he never gave her the opportunity to admonish him. For the moment, he'd had quite enough of talking, and so he kissed her, silenced her protests with his lips and tongue. Ruth didn't seem to mind; she wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, her fingers threading through his hair, while the other caught him by the hip, and dragged him closer still.

Surely this was heaven, standing here in this quiet cottage with this incredible woman in his arms, sharing a kiss of such unbridled passion, the likes of which he'd never known before. Gently he caught her plump bottom lip between his teeth, holding it there for a moment before releasing her, and running his tongue along it instead, reveling in the way she followed his lead, kept pace with him as his need for her grew. He ran his hand up the length of her spine, marveling at the way she responded to his touch, arching against him, the movement of her body urgent and sure, and heady with the promise of so much more to come. And oh, how he wanted more; he just wasn't sure that her foyer was the best place to continue his exploration of her.

"Ruth?" he asked her softly, pulling away from the sweetness of her lips for just a moment to look into her eyes, and finding them hazy with need.

"Upstairs?" she responded breathlessly.

 _Christ. Yes, please._ He grinned at her, and she took that as answer in the affirmative.

Before he had a chance to move she had slipped out of his arms and was heading for the stairs, casting a mysterious little smile over her shoulder at him. That smile was enough to have him tearing after her, and they stumbled up the stairs together, his hands holding her hips firmly, his lips pressed against the back of her neck. Their progress was impeded somewhat by Fidget, who seemed rather put out that Ruth wasn't paying attention to him any more, and showed his displeasure by placing himself underfoot as much as possible.

When they reached the doorway to her bedroom Ruth slipped inside, but Harry lingered behind for a moment, reaching out with his foot to stop the little cat from rushing past him. "Not tonight, my friend," Harry said quietly, holding the cat at bay while he navigated into the bedroom, and closed the door behind him. Inside Ruth was waiting for him, an affectionate smile lighting up her gorgeous face.

"He'll be cross with you, come morning," she told him seriously.

"I don't care," Harry answered as he drew her back into his arms.

He couldn't recall the last time the lead-up to sex had included quite this much laughter, quite this much smiling; there was a joy in him, and in her as well, and no sense of urgency, no need to rush. He fully intended to take his time with her tonight, to show her everything she made him feel, and he was looking forward to making each delicious moment last as long as possible. Ruth seemed to be thinking along the same lines; though she had once again pressed her body flush against his own and was currently rucking up the back of his shirt, slipping her hand beneath to trace teasing patterns on his back, her kiss was warm and languid, utterly unhurried. The feel of her fingertips running across his skin lit a fire in him, pushed him forward, made him bold, and he once more dragged his hands down her back, this time with a purpose.

 _Where in God's name is the zip?_ he asked himself as he searched across the soft fabric of her navy dress; he found no trace of it, not so much as a button. After a few moments of his questing hands she pulled her mouth away from his, laughing again.

"There isn't a zip, Harry," she told him. She paused for a moment, as if she were trying to make her up her mind about something, before she bit her bottom lip between her teeth, and her eyes found his. She reached down and caught the hem of her dress in her hands, never once taking her gaze from his face as in one fluid motion she pulled the dress up and off of her body, tossing it aside to pool on the floor.

Beneath the dress she wore simple black lace knickers and a matching bra, and the sight of the dark fabric against her pale skin took his breath away. She was absolutely stunning, standing there half-naked, her skin shining in the moonlight streaming in through the window behind her, and for a moment he was struck dumb by the sight of her. The curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, her soft, slightly rounded stomach; he wanted nothing more in that moment than to run his lips across every inch of her skin, to learn the shape of her, and to memorize every sound she made.

Before he realized what was happening his mouth was on hers again, one hand reaching up to let down her hair while the other traced a path down her spine, relishing the warmth and softness of her skin. Her hair fell free in a gentle wave and he ran his fingers through it tenderly while she sighed and melted in his arms, her body pressed against his, molding herself to him. Her left hand was back under his shirt, tracing a path from his back around to his chest, while the other had slipped all the way down to his bum, giving him a little squeeze.

Harry drew his mouth away from hers, leaning back to raise his eyebrow at her incredulously. She just shrugged her bare shoulders, the gesture drawing his attention back to her body; he longed to see her, all of her, but there was something he needed to do first.

He caught her lips in a searing kiss, loving the little noises she made and the way she gave herself up to him completely; no woman he had ever known had ever kissed like she did, had ever tasted like she did, had ever felt like she did. As his tongue delved into her mouth and her hand reclaimed its hold on his bum he nudged her back until suddenly her knees hit the edge of the bed and she lost her balance, falling back against the mattress with a surprised little laugh. She gazed up at him adoringly, propping herself up on her elbows, and watched as he determinedly set about accomplishing the task at hand.

He lifted one of her feet in his hands, and slowly dragged down the zip on the side of her black leather boot, all the while holding her eyes with his own, delaying the inevitable, making her wait for more. Though she made a quite a picture, in nothing but black underwear and tall black boots, he desperately wanted to run his tongue along the smooth skin of her legs, and the boots were getting in the way. Besides, making love to a woman in high-heeled boots was not everything it was cracked up to be, and he knew that from experience. He didn't fancy explaining that to Ruth, however, so he just fixed his eyes on her face and tried to show her without words how much he yearned for her, for all of her.

The boot hit the floor with a solid _thunk,_ and he carefully pulled off her sock, making sure to run his fingers down the curve of her calf, swirling around her delicate ankle and teasing across the sensitive arch of her foot, feeling just a little burst of pride when he heard the little gasp this last move earned him. Throughout his many years, Harry Pearce had learned a great deal about women, about what they liked, what made them tick, and the most important thing his experience had taught him was that every woman was different. What made one woman moan in pleasure might have no effect at all on another, and so he felt the best approach was simply to try everything, to follow his heart and the sound of her voice and let her teach him what she liked. And now he knew something about her that he hadn't known five minutes ago, and like any good student he filed that information away for later use.

He disposed of her second boot in much the same manner as the first, taking his time and drawing another panting gasp from her when he replaced his fingers with his lips, and pressed a kiss against her foot. This little journey was only just beginning, and he was eager to see what other sounds she might make, given the proper encouragement.

Given the position she was in, laying half on the bed and half off, one of her legs cradled in his hands, he supposed there really was no question of what he was going to do next. Inspiration had struck him, and there was no way he wasn't going to follow through, regardless of the protests from his dodgy knee.

With as much grace as he could muster he sank to the floor, kneeling there between her thighs, and ran his hands up the length of her legs, feeling her taught muscles trembling beneath his hands. Up and down, up and down, he repeated the move, learning the shape of her; he turned his head and planted a kiss against the back of her knee, and was rewarded with the sound of his name, falling from her lips in a soft sigh. He kissed his way up her skin, his lips and the tip of his tongue dragging along her inner thigh, moving tortuously slowly, delaying the inevitable, ignoring the uncomfortable tightness of his trousers as his own desire grew. There was something intoxicating about this, about his kneeling before her and worshipping her skin while he was still fully-clothed and she was nearly naked, writhing on her bed as his lips neared the edge of her knickers.

While his mouth had been busy kissing her his hands had been busy sliding underneath her, cupping her bum and squeezing, kneading, losing himself in the softness of her flesh and the way her panting breaths came faster and faster. He bit down lightly on her inner thigh and looked up, watching her watching him over the rise of her body; when he refused to release his hold on her, her hips bucked towards him, and a soft, pleading moan escaped her. _Good to know,_ he thought.

Though he could easily have teased her all night, his own need was growing, rising higher and higher with every sound she made. He peeled her knickers off, tugging them down her legs, and took a moment to lean back, to take in the image she presented him, wanton and ready for him.

" _God,_ Harry," she breathed, gazing down at him in wonder.

"We've barely even started, Ruth," he told her, smiling when he saw the smoldering look she gave him.

With barely suppressed glee he leaned back in, dropping a few kisses against her other thigh while she made her impatience known. That comforted him somehow, that realization that she wanted this as badly as did he. Finally, though, he could wait no longer, and he gave in to her urgings.

 _Christ,_ he thought as he dragged the tips of his fingers across her dripping folds; she was so wet, so warm, so bloody perfect and he knew in that moment that he would never be able to look at her again without remembering this, remembering the way she responded to him when he leaned in and followed the path of his fingers with his tongue. He kissed her, learning the way she felt and the way she tasted, and searched for her clit, wrapping his lips around it and laving it with his tongue when he found it. She was moaning above him, and he knew she was watching him as well, and the thought of her eyes on him while he pleasured her this way made him bold. He slid his left hand under her bum, grasping her flesh firmly, raising her hips up to meet his questing mouth, and used his right hand to ease two fingers inside her, curling them just a bit as he slowly, slowly thrust into her. The sounds she was making now more closely resembled whimpers than moans, and he carried on relentlessly, the endless onslaught of his lips and his tongue and his hands eventually pushing her over the edge, drawing from her a heart-shattering cry as her whole body tensed and she clenched tight around his hand, shuddering and shattering until finally she collapsed back against the mattress, boneless and spent. Harry pressed one last kiss against her still-quivering sex before he rose, thankful that she was so lost in her own bliss that she didn't notice the loud cracking noise his knee made as he straightened it, or his own wince of pain, or the way he used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his mouth clean before he leaned down to press a gentle kiss against her sweat-drenched forehead. It was worth more than any momentary discomfort, he decided, to know how she tasted and what she looked like when she came.

Ruth was in no fit state to move, gasping and trembling as she was, so he moved her himself, gathering her in his arms and easing her further up the bed so that her head rested against the pillows.

" _God,_ Harry," she said again, and he laughed, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. All in all he was feeling quite proud of himself, but he wasn't finished with her yet. She was still wearing her bra, and he was still wearing all his clothes, and the insistence of his cock straining against his trousers could not be ignored forever.

It would appear they were in agreement about that; as her breathing settled Ruth rolled in his arms, propping herself up on her elbows once more to lean across his chest and kiss him seriously, humming when she dragged her tongue along his bottom lip. As she did he wondered if she could still taste herself there, wondered if she liked it, but before he had the chance to ask she had straddled his hips, reaching down between them to unbutton his shirt, smiling at him all the while. Her hair fell in a wave across the side of her face, and as he watched her at work, her expression reminded him of the look she wore when she was arranging flowers at her shop; serious, and determined, and completely content. Gently he caressed her sides, her hips, her soft stomach and the smooth muscles of her back, delighting in the little shivers his touch left in its wake. When she had unfastened the last button he sat up to disentangle himself from the shirt, taking the opportunity to lean forward and capture her lips with his own. Those perfect, plump, kiss-swollen lips, lips he could kiss every minute of every day for the rest of his life if she'd let him.

Once his hands were free from his shirt they returned to their perusal of her body, reaching up to unclasp her bra and pull it away, finally, finally revealing her breasts to his hungry gaze. His eyes flicked up to hers for a moment, gauging, assessing, and what he saw there was encouragement, and desire, and maybe, just maybe, love.

In this position it was easy enough for him to guide her, one hand at the small of her back, arching her under his touch so that her chest thrust forward, so that his lips could find the soft swell of her breasts, so that he could lose himself there. He took his time; he did not possess infinite restraint, but he could wait to sink himself inside her, could hold off his own gratification a few minutes more. Kissing her, tasting her, loving her was a pleasure in itself, and Harry had never been one to deny himself a pleasure.

She very nearly squealed, when he wrapped his lips around the furled bud of one dusky pink nipple; the sound was desperate, and needy, and music to his ears. With eager hands she clutched his head, held him close against her skin, her body curling around him, thrusting down against his hardness. He could feel the heat and wet of her through his trousers, and he growled against her breast at the sensation.

"Harry, please," she mewled when he turned his attention to the other breast, but he just smiled and carried on. The longer the wait, the sweeter the reward, he thought, but Ruth had other ideas. She dropped her hands to his shoulders and pushed him down firmly against the mattress, and he had to smile at her confidence. In their daily interactions she had tended towards bashfulness, always hesitant lest she ask too much from him, but she seemed to feel no such reluctance here in the warm gentle quiet of her bed. Here she was confident, and it moved Harry's heart to see it.

She shimmied her way down his body, dropping little kisses across his chest and stomach; for a moment Harry felt an unfamiliar wave of self-consciousness, that the excesses of his middle age should be so exposed to a woman as lovely as Ruth, but she didn't seem to mind in the slightest. Her lips had reached the waistband of his trousers and her hands had come to join them, making quick work of his belt before unfastening his trousers. She grinned up at him mischievously for a moment before she reached inside to cup him through his trunks; he groaned and quickly shifted their position, fretful that after so much buildup her gentle touch would be enough to send him over the edge.

Ruth laughed again, and Harry decided in that moment that his favorite sort of lover was the sort who could laugh, and smile, and tease, no matter how desperate her longing for release. He decided that his favorite eyes were her eyes, his favorite lips were her lips, his favorite breasts were her breasts, and his favorite hands were her hands. She laid back against the pillows, completely, gloriously naked, her hair mussed up and her soft pale skin reddened and glowing from his attentions, and he gave himself over entirely to his love for her.

Desire arced through the air between them as he pulled off his trunks and trousers, and settled himself above her, smiling down at her as she bent her knees and cradled him there between her thighs. They'd spoken very little, choosing instead to let their bodies say what their words could not, and Harry had treasured every moment. She reached up with gentle hands to touch his face, her eyes a mystery, and Harry held her gaze as he eased himself inside her.

Those glorious eyes fluttered closed as she let loose a breathy moan, but she kept her hands on his face and he kept his gaze focused on her as he thrust that little bit deeper inside her. On impulse he leaned forward and traced the curve of her ear with his tongue, and several things happened all at once; her hips bucked up hard against him, her inner muscles clenched tight around him, drawing him deeper still, her back arched, pressing her breasts firmly against his chest, and from her mouth there came a moan, a deep, breathless, indescribably erotic noise that very nearly had him losing all his self-restraint. He leaned back slightly, completely blown away by her, and found her eyes open and watching him.

"Oh, make that sound again," he said before leaning in and dragging his tongue around the shell of her ear once more.

She did, and he was lost.

He pounded into her, overwhelmed by the way she stretched to accommodate his cock, by the way she met him thrust for thrust, by the encouraging sounds she made and the sharp, sweet sting of her nails digging into his back. In the beginning he'd intended for their coupling to be slow and tender, but this was more, so much more than he'd ever imagined, and she was right there with him, desperate for every bit of himself he was willing to give. The tensing of her muscles and the way her moans faded as he stole the breath from her lungs warned him of her impending orgasm, and he kept up the pace, plunging inside her again and again until she cried out again, her whole body tensing and rising up off the bed, following him clutching at him, drawing him in. There was no holding back, after that; two more thrusts and he was coming, too, shocked by his own loud, satisfied groan as he spilled himself inside her.

It was a long time before either of them were coherent again; he laid beside her, his body half-covering hers, his face nestled in the softness of her hair, her hands gently soothing the scratches she'd left all down his back, from his shoulders to his hips.

 _I love you,_ he thought, but even in the haze of post-coital bliss he knew that nothing could shatter the sweetness of this moment like those three little words, and so he held his tongue, and chose instead to enjoy the pleasant ache in his limbs and the heady feeling of her body pressed against his own.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him after a time, turning slightly so she could face him.

"I was thinking how perfect you are," he told her, somewhat truthfully, brushing his lips across hers gently when he saw her blush. That made him smile, that after what they'd just done, a compliment still had the power to make her blush. She really was perfect, to his mind, not just by virtue of the softness of her body or the beauty of her face but because of the brilliance of her mind, the strength of her heart, the loveliness of her very soul.

"You're not so bad yourself, you know," she said in a low voice. Already she seemed near to sleep, and for his part Harry wasn't certain he'd ever be able to move again.

"Stay?" she asked him quietly, and for a moment he was taken aback; there was a fear in her eyes, an uncertainty, and he had to remind himself of everything she'd been through, all the heartache she'd endured. She'd expected him to leave, he realized, expected that any good thing that came her way would be taken from her.

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away," he told her, using his foot to catch the corner of the duvet they'd pushed to the end of the bed in their haste, and dragging it up to cover the pair of them. He rolled over so that he was flat on his back and she moved with him, her head resting just above his heart and her arm draped across his chest. She hummed one last time, and then drifted off to sleep. Harry smiled to himself, and then he did the same.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Apologies for the delay! When I started writing** _ **I and Love and You**_ **I hadn't intended to neglect this little fic. I humbly offer a bit more smut in the hopes that my negligence can be forgiven. This chapter is M rated.**

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Harry woke feeling warm, and rested, and very, very comfortable. Ruth had barely shifted during the night; her right arm was still slung across his chest and her right leg had snaked over his own, their feet nestled together under the duvet. Her tangled hair was at just the right height to tickle his nose, and for a moment he simply breathed her in, overjoyed to be waking up with her at last after months of quiet longing and half-acknowledged hopes. It had been such a long time since he last spent a whole, glorious, uninterrupted night in a lover's bed, and as he took stock that morning he decided it was experience he would like to repeat. Frequently.

She was a constant surprise to him, was Ruth; by turns hesitant and bold, she kept him guessing, never quite sure where they stood. Whatever she was feeling, the events of the night before had certainly solidified things for Harry. He'd known for a while that he was beginning to fall for her, that despite all the promises he'd made to himself he'd come to care about her ( _to love her_ , a little voice whispered in the back of his mind) and plans for long holidays and renting the cottage faded as he entertained thoughts of what it might be like to stay here with her, wrapped up in her and the happy little bubble they'd built for themselves. And as he lay there in her bed, her body infiltrating his every sense, he couldn't help but hope that she'd reached the same conclusion. For what did it matter, if people whispered about the pretty young florist and the grumpy old copper, so long as they were happy together? The shop was almost completely restored and Harry had the George situation well in hand; why shouldn't they try to make a go of it?

In the world beyond her darkened bedroom morning had dawned once again, and the first rays of sunshine began to slip through the cracks in the heavy cream-colored curtains on her window, laying gentle stripes along the smooth skin of her back. That soft skin called to him, and he was powerless to stop himself; without a sound he raised his left hand, running his fingertips along the curve of her spine, smiling when she reflexively pressed herself into him and hummed against his chest. That happy little sound was quickly becoming one of his favorite things about her, and he decided there and then to encourage her to make it as often as possible.

"Good morning," he murmured in a low voice, pressing a soft kiss against her hair. He felt her answering smile, felt her lips brush against his skin, her hand smoothing over the broad plane of his chest as she slowly woke.

"Don't want to move," she mumbled, and he couldn't help but laugh; sleepy Ruth, he decided, was utterly adorable.

"Then don't," he told her.

It was Sunday, after all, and that meant she had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, just a whole day stretching out ahead of her, ahead of them, full of possibilities and promise. For once the thought of spending long, lazy hours in bed did not fill Harry with dread; with Ruth there beside him, he found the prospect of staying exactly where he was rather appealing.

Their peaceful moment was shattered then, by the shrill ringing of his mobile, still tucked in the pocket of his trousers by the foot of the bed. With a despairing groan he pulled himself away from his gentle exploration of her skin, and shuffled down the bed to fetch it. When he glanced at the screen he felt his stomach clench in apprehension. He cast one last longing glance over his shoulder at Ruth before he rose and carried his mobile out into the hall to answer the call.

"You don't waste any time, do you?" he asked grumpily, leaning against the wall outside her door. From inside the room he could just make out the sounds of Ruth shambling around, no doubt heading for her en suite, and he felt a stab of disappointment at the thought that she might not be curled up in bed waiting for him when the call ended.

"You know me, Harry," Tom said on the other end of the line, "I don't like to let things linger."

"What did you find?" Harry asked. Curiosity warred with apprehension inside him; he desperately wanted to find some way to catch George, to lock him away not just for the destruction of the shop but for every cruel, malicious, violent thing he'd ever done to Ruth. He had never been a proponent of vigilante justice, but in this one instance he felt vindicated. Someone had once told him _if you can't do something good, do something right,_ and it was with those words echoing through his mind that he first called Tom. And now, the wheels that he had set in motion were turning, and whatever the result, the responsibility rested solely on his shoulders. He thought of the beautiful woman in the room behind him, thought about her smile and her laugh and her heart, and he decided that whatever the consequences, it would be worth it to protect her, to set her free from the clutches of the man who had hurt her so deeply.

"Your friend's a real winner," Tom told him drily. "I arranged to run into him at a pub he frequents last night. Nasty temper on that one."

Harry could only imagine what Tom had done to merit a display of said temper, but he held his tongue. Surely Tom hadn't called this early on a Sunday to tell him that George had anger management issues; no, there was something more behind this call, and Harry was in no mood to play games.

"Tom," he started, but the younger man interrupted him, likely sensing his impatience.

"He's only been in London for about a year, looks like he moved around a lot after the divorce. There were a few men in the pub last night who say they've gotten to know him, and they didn't have anything good to say about him. Apparently he got into it with one of the local working girls. I've got two witnesses who say they saw him hit her, and that no one's seen her since."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. Whatever he'd been expecting, it certainly wasn't this.

"Do you think-"

"I don't have all the details yet, Harry, I just wanted to warn you. I think this guy is serious. Keep a close eye on the ex-wife. I've got a bad feeling about this."

Explaining to Tom just how close an eye he'd been keeping on Ruth didn't seem like the best course of action, at the moment, so Harry simply said, "I will. You're looking into this girl's disappearance?"

"I'm on it. I've put in a call to your friend Malcolm, and he's helping me track her down."

"Good." He couldn't really think of anything else to say to that.

"I'll ring you back when I know more."

"Thanks," Harry said, and Tom ended the call without another word.

A missing prostitute and an ominous warning from Tom did not make for a happy morning. Harry sighed and ran his hand over his face, pondering his next move. This information had to be kept from Ruth for now, he decided. After all, Tom had no more than idle speculation at the moment, and it wouldn't do to frighten her (or inform her of the steps he'd taken without her permission) before he held all the cards. He made a quick trip to the guest bathroom down the hall, and then padded back into her bedroom, relieved to find her sprawled once more under the duvet, lying on her stomach and watching him with a little smile on her face.

"And who was that, then?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows, her face lovely and more carefree than he'd ever seen it before. Harry dropped his mobile on top of his trousers, and slid under the duvet beside her, leaning over to kiss her. She indulged him for a moment but pulled back quickly, raising one eyebrow at him as a silent reminder that she hadn't forgotten her question, and she wanted an answer. He flopped back against the pillows with a sigh.

"That was an old friend. Tom," he added, when he saw the momentary flicker of doubt in her eyes. "We used to work together, back in London, and he had a question about one of our old cases. Nothing to worry about."

She hummed again and flopped her head down onto the pillows beside his, giving him an unobstructed view of her back, from shoulders to hips, and Harry seized the opportunity, rolling over so he could drape one arm over her and drop light, teasing kisses against the nape of her neck. Beneath him she gave a happy little sigh, and, feeling encouraged, Harry pressed on, shifting his weight slightly so that his rapidly growing erection throbbed insistently against the smooth skin of her thigh and his hands could wander the length of her body. There was no point, he decided, in hiding the way he felt about her, the way he needed her, and so he didn't even try. If there was one thing he'd learned in all his many years, it was that nothing was guaranteed, and no good thing lasts forever. The way Ruth made him feel was a very good thing indeed, and he was determined to enjoy every precious moment of it.

One of his hands slipped down low over the swell of her bottom, giving her soft flesh a gentle squeeze, and in response she reached behind her and pulled the sheets away, baring herself to him completely and lifting her hips, just a little, in silent invitation.

And how could he refuse? He was in bed with a beautiful woman, a woman who, against all reason, seemed to want him, seemed to care for him, seemed willing to offer him everything she had to give, and Harry Pearce found himself immensely thankful for the circumstances that had brought him here. His life had been far from perfect, but it seemed to him that every mistake, every heartbreak, every sleepless night and every soul-crushing day had been leading up to this, leading up to her.

He snaked one hand over her hip and down through her soft chestnut curls, and he found her swollen and wet for him, his fingers sliding over her folds of their own volition, drawing a low, breathy moan from her. He couldn't help but wonder at that, at the speed of her response to him, and for a moment he considered that perhaps she had woken like he had, with thoughts of the night before drifting through her mind.

"Don't tease, Harry," she told him sternly, turning to gaze back at him over her shoulder, her glorious eyes dark and shining with want.

He leaned forward and caught the edge of her ear between his teeth, eliciting the same response he'd found so fascinating the night before. She moaned and gasped and thrust back against him, begging him to do something, anything, to ease the ache inside her.

"Yes, ma'am," he breathed against the shell of her ear, sliding his thick cock into her welcoming heat with a sigh of bliss.

Sex was something he'd always enjoyed, something he'd been told on more than one occasion that he rather excelled at, despite his other personal failings in the relationship department, but it had never felt like this before. It had never felt quite this right, quite this good; burying himself inside a woman had never felt like coming home, before Ruth. Now, though, thrusting long and slow, feeling her wrapped around him warm and soft and perfect, kissing her neck and her shoulder and every bit of her he could reach, listening to her gasp and moan and feeling her match him thrust for thrust, that was exactly how he felt. He was home, here inside her, and he never, ever wanted to leave.

Beneath him Ruth began to make a soft keening sound, her back curving in a graceful arch, her head lifting up, turning to him, plump lips begging him to kiss her. He obliged, brushing her lips with his as he pounded into her harder, lifting her hips with one hand so he could reach that much deeper. He wasn't going to last long, but if the sounds she was making were any indication, neither was she. He shifted so he could reach beneath her with his free hand, and gently rubbed her clit until she clenched hard around him, her shoulders straining against his chest as she tumbled over the edge, whimpering. That soft sound of capitulation and the fluttering of her warm inner walls around his cock pulled him after her, and he came with a groan, his arms shaking with the strain of keeping his weight off her. As soon as the world stopped spinning around him he gave her one last little nudge, chuckling breathlessly at her answering moan before flopping down beside her, happy and spent. She curled against his side, and they lay there for quite some time, wrapped around one another and grinning in silence.

* * *

Eventually the rumbling of his stomach roused him, and he suggested they make their way downstairs for some breakfast. Ruth agreed enthusiastically, kissing him once before slipping away from him and heading for the en suite. He lay for a moment watching her progress, the soft swaying of her hips and the gentle movement of her breasts, a small bruise only just visible below her left nipple. Silently he chided himself for leaving a mark on her, and tried to ignore the surge of pride he felt at the sight.

He pulled on his trunks and his trousers and padded down to the kitchen to make tea. Unbeknownst to him Fidget had slipped into her bedroom at some point, most likely while he was out in the hallway speaking to Tom, and he found himself very thankful that Ruth wasn't there to see the blush that colored his cheeks as he realized that the cat had been in the room with them while they'd been doing…that. He didn't like the idea of an audience, even one of the feline variety.

Fidget for his part didn't seem particularly disturbed by what he'd just witnessed; he was too busy whining and begging for his breakfast.

"You'll have to wait for your mum, I'm afraid," Harry told him as they made their way down the stairs, doing his best not trip over the excited little animal as he went. "I've no idea where your food is."

Fidget just stared up at him, and whined some more.

 _What's gotten into you, man?_ Harry grumbled to himself as he turned the kettle on and rooted around in the cabinets for tea things. _Talking to a bloody cat._

He was spared any further self-recrimination by the sudden appearance of Ruth, clad only in his shirt and a smile, and he was momentarily overwhelmed by the desire to push her up against the table and take her again. Though his spirit was willing, his flesh definitely wasn't up to the task just yet, and so he settled for drawing her into his arms, kissing her passionately as he cupped her face in one hand and the other drifted down to squeeze her bottom. She was warm and soft and perfect, pressed up against him, and he delighted in the feel of her, the taste of her, the simple joy of her.

"What do you want to eat?" she asked, dancing out of his embrace and heading for the refrigerator.

"Oh, you know me, I'm not terribly picky," he answered, turning his attention once more to the kettle.

"Bacon sandwich it is, then," Ruth decided, pulling the breakfast supplies out and stacking them on the counter, humming to herself all the while. There was something familiar about the tune, something that tugged at his memory, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it, and he was loath to ask her, and stop the gentle sound while he was enjoying it so. She hummed, and he fussed over the tea, and together they set about making breakfast.

Perhaps it should have been surprising, how easily they worked together, laughing and touching softly in the hazy light of a warm summer morning, but Harry refused to question it. He was enjoying himself far too much for that. She fried the bacon and he poured their tea and they spoke of little nothings, casting indulgent glances at one another all the while.

They had just sat down at the table, sitting side-by-side and close enough for Harry to feel the warmth of Ruth's bare leg through his trousers, when the doorbell rang.

She nearly jumped out of her skin, startled by the sudden interruption, and blushed scarlet as she realized that neither of them was in any state to answer the door just then.

"Ignore it?" Harry asked, knowing already what the answer would be.

"What if it's something important?" she responded, and he knew what she was thinking. What if it were Adam or Ros, come to talk to her about George and the shop? They couldn't ignore it, knowing how significant this early morning visit could be, but Ruth couldn't very well answer the door wearing only his shirt.

"I'll answer it," he told her, deciding that if one of them had to face the embarrassment of being discovered half-dressed, it might as well be him. He leaned over and kissed her cheek briefly, and then went off to see who the visitor might be.

He was all too aware of the picture he presented, his broad, somewhat paunchy chest bare, every scar and imperfection on full display, his hair mussed up and his trousers wrinkled and obviously left over from the day before. If it was Adam, he supposed they wouldn't have anything more than a few sly looks to worry about, but if it was Ros, he imagined he was in for quite the bollocking.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open, and his heart froze in his chest as he took in the sight before him. For a long moment he said nothing, stunned into silence as his brain stuttered to a halt and he struggled to process a million different things at once. After what seemed like an age he finally managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and uttered a single, incredulous word.

"Catherine?"


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Just as a warning, it will likely be at least a week before the next chapter is up, as the end of the month is a very busy time for me at work and I don't think I'll have enough brainpower left to write anything at all until next weekend rolls around.**

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Catherine offered him a tentative little smile, but Harry simply stared at her in dumbfounded confusion. What was she doing here? How had she known where to find him? How in the world was he going to explain this to her?

"I must have got the house number wrong," she told him in her soft, musical voice. "I went to the cottage across the lane first, but no one answered. You're always up with the birds, and I saw there was a light on over here, so I thought maybe your neighbor might know where you'd gone."

"Ah," Harry said weakly. She was looking at him curiously, clearly waiting for him to invite her in, but it was not his place to offer such an invitation. Harry knew he needed to say something, but he dreaded the moment when Catherine would learn the truth, and so the words died on his lips. Their relationship had been fraught since Catherine was a child, and Jane in her bitterness had railed against him, telling her things no young girl should have to hear about her father. It was only in the last few years that Catherine had taken a few cautious steps towards repairing the state of things between them, and discovering just what he was doing in this cottage so early on a Sunday morning was bound to undo all their careful work.

Ruth took the decision out of his hands, in the end. Catherine was standing there, staring at her shirtless father with confusion rising in her eyes when Ruth poked her head around the kitchen doorway and said, "Harry? Who is it?"

He chanced a glance at her over his shoulder. Most of her body was hidden from view; only her face, framed by her tousled hair above and his shirt collar below, could be seen, but it was enough. In front of him his daughter went from concerned to furious so quickly it left his head spinning.

" _Jesus,_ " she scoffed, tossing her blonde hair and taking a step away from him. "You never change, do you? You've only been here a few weeks and already you're shagging your way up and down the block."

Harry stared at her in consternation, feeling his ire rising. For so long it had been like this between them; he would do something to disappoint her, she would say something cutting, he would grow cross and speak to her harshly and she would run, and it would be years before she spoke to him again. He wanted to break the cycle, but Catherine shared her mother's innate ability for getting under his skin with just one casual remark. Ruth didn't deserve to be dismissed as just another shag and Harry keenly felt the need to defend her, but how could he possibly walk the line between admonishing Catherine and angering her?

Once again, Ruth had the answer. With a confidence that shocked him she came padding up to his side, never mind the fact that her bare legs were on full display for all the world to see. She threaded her arm through his and smiled up at him encouragingly for a moment before turning to the now-sputtering Catherine.

"You must be Catherine," she said warmly. "Your father's told me so much about you. We were just about to have some breakfast, why don't you join us?"

Catherine crossed her arms over her chest, giving Ruth an appraising stare as the air between them crackled with tension. Harry had never been the sort to share the private details of his life with just anyone, and Catherine knew this. Perhaps she'd be able to put it together, to realize that the simple fact that Ruth knew about her spoke volumes about how special she was to him. Harry held his breath, waiting for the penny to drop.

"Breakfast would be lovely," Catherine said finally. "I've been in the car for hours."

"Wonderful!" Ruth crowed with enthusiasm; Harry knew her well enough by now to see straight through that façade to the fear that lay underneath, and he found himself feeling rather proud of her, proud of the way she'd buried her own insecurities and sacrificed her dignity to give him a chance to spend time with his daughter. "I'll just pop upstairs and make myself decent, shall I?" she said, blushing only a little as she reached up on her tiptoes to kiss Harry's cheek before she turned and all but ran upstairs. His daughter gave him an arch, disdainful sort of look, and he just sighed in defeat, stepping aside to hold the door open for her.

As they made their way into the kitchen, Catherine walked slowly, taking in the clutter and the riot of color that was Ruth's home, casting an incredulous eye on the overcrowded bookshelves and the faded paint and Fidget, winding himself around Harry's ankles and mewling up at him, begging hopefully for a second breakfast. It was rather painfully obvious that this was not Harry's house after all, and he knew Catherine had worked it out the moment she stepped through the door. What must this place look like to her?

Ruth was like no woman he'd ever known before, and Catherine had heard all about his previous conquests from her mother. Even after the divorce Jane had somehow known, had always known, when he was seeing someone else, and with each name added to the list of "whores Harry's shagged" her worst suspicions about him seemed to be confirmed. Perhaps this was his chance to prove to Catherine that he was more than her mother's scornful diatribes had made him out to be, that he was a man with a heart like any other, a heart that could be won and changed by the love of a good woman.

"So I had the right house the first time, after all," Catherine observed as they reached the kitchen. She leaned up against the doorframe, watching him as he set about making her something to eat. They had very little in common, Harry and his daughter, but she had inherited his keen insight, his ability to sum up a scene with just a glance, and he knew exactly what she saw now. She saw that he knew his way around the kitchen, saw the two plates set on the same side of the table, saw the way he gently chided and fussed over Fidget, and she saw how all of these things added up to a picture that was rather incongruous with her image of Harry, champion of the one-night-stand. A tiny flicker of hope rose in his chest at the thought; perhaps he wouldn't need to offer some longwinded, painful explanation, and could simply _show_ her how much Ruth meant to him instead.

"What's her name, then?"

Harry bit back a triumphant little smile. There was more curiosity than anger in her voice now, and he took that as a point in his favor. The morning had turned into a careful dance for him, and for once he let someone else take the lead, deciding that he would let Catherine determine how much she needed to know. Words like _love_ and _fate_ and _divine (feline) intervention_ would only make Catherine cross, and so he did not speak them.

Instead he kept his back turned toward her while he fried up the bacon, and spoke in a low, steady voice.

"Her name is Ruth. She's the local florist."

Catherine hummed a little in response; he could feel her thinking, could feel the hairs rising on the back of his neck as she stared at him. It had been such a long time since he'd be alone in a room with his oldest child, and he found himself wondering yet again how he'd got it all so wrong. His love for her was fierce and deep, and had been since the very first moment he'd held her in his arms. But he and Jane had been too young, too selfish, to wrapped up in their own fears and needs to be the kind of parents Catherine needed when she was small, and all these years later Harry was still paying the price for the sins of his youth. However hard it might be, however hard she might make it for him, he was determined to make amends.

"I couldn't believe it, when you called me out of the blue like that," Catherine's voice sounded much closer than it had a moment before, and Harry jumped slightly, startled by her proximity. With a little half-turn, still keeping a watchful eye on the bacon, he glanced over his shoulder and found her kneeling just behind him, scratching a blissful Fidget behind the ears. "I still can't really believe you've actually retired." There was a hint of reproach to her voice, and Harry couldn't fault her for that. The job had been a wedge between him and his family since his wedding day; he'd always chosen duty to one over love of the other, and everyone that mattered to him had suffered as a result. Long hours left him exhausted and waspish, prone to arguments, and the horrors he saw left him suspicious and fretful. He was absent more often than not, but when he _was_ around his children he stifled them with his anger and his fear for them, his desire to protect them overwhelming his need to help them grow into independence. Catherine resented him for it and Graham never learned how to look after himself, and now here they all were, battered and broken and untrusting of each other.

"Smells good," Ruth said from the doorway. Harry carefully plated the bacon and handed it off to Catherine before wiping his hands on a tea towel and finally turning around.

Ruth had slipped into blue jeans and a soft grey t-shirt, and pulled her hair back from her face once more. _Radiant,_ he decided, was the only word to describe her. Warm and soft and lovely, she smiled at him for just a moment before walking over to hand him back his shirt. He tugged it on and buttoned it up, and then he joined his daughter at the table while Ruth set about making fresh tea, chiding Harry for not thinking of it himself. Catherine chuckled at her admonishments, and Harry watched the whole scene unfold with a bemused sort of contentment. His lover and his daughter, teasing him for forgetting to make the tea. Who could have imagined something like this would ever come to pass?

It was all down to Ruth, really. Ruth had inspired him to call Catherine in the first place, and though she hadn't answered, she had eventually rung him back, and it was the memory of Ruth's gentle words that made him answer. Throughout that somewhat awkward conversation, he thought of Ruth, and told his daughter all about his life in the hopes that he might build a bridge between them.

"Harry tells me you make films, Catherine," Ruth said as she placed a small, only slightly chipped mug of tea in front of her before taking a seat beside him. Under the table she placed her hand on his thigh, just above his knee, and gave him a reassuring squeeze. His heart swelled with gratitude for her once again, and he covered her hand with his own for a moment, wanting to let her know how much he appreciated everything she'd done for him that morning.

Relieved to be talking about something other than her father's love life, Catherine launched into a spirited discussion of her most recent documentary, a study on the trouble in Palestine and its effect on those who had been displaced by the conflict. As a girl she had always been tender-hearted and impulsive, and though she had grown more circumspect with age, she still allowed herself to be ruled by passion on occasion. As a result, Harry found himself playing the role of the worried father, always begging her to choose somewhere safer to film, to come home before things got too dangerous in whatever hell-hole she found herself in. Pleading, cajoling, shouting; he'd tried it all, and none of it ever worked. She went where she pleased, following her heart and her own moral compass, seeking to shed light into the dark places of the world. If she hadn't been his daughter, he supposed he would found her dedication inspiring, but instead he only found it terrifying. He wanted her safe, and whole, and preferably in England.

* * *

To Harry's surprise, and his delight, Ruth and Catherine got on like a house on fire. Over the next hour they ate their breakfast, and drank their tea, and washed up, and played with Fidget, and all the while they talked and laughed. Ruth convinced Catherine to admit that she was a man with the unlikely name of Fabien, and Catherine convinced Ruth to tell the truth about how she and Harry had met, shrub-related injuries included. During most of the conversation Harry was quiet, simply watching them interact and wondering how he'd got to be so lucky. When Catherine had first seen Ruth, Harry had been convinced he had just lost any chance of a real relationship with his daughter, but just like that Ruth had turned the tables, and pulled them all together again. She had that sort of effect on people, he'd noticed.

All too soon, though, Catherine was checking her watch and making her excuses. "I'm on my way down to London to see my producer, I only stopped in to say hello," she explained as Harry walked her to the door.

"I'm glad you did," Harry told her truthfully. "I'd quite like to see you again, if you've the time."

There was something vaguely calculating in the way she looked at him then, as though she were asking herself a question and looking for the answer on his face.

"Ruth is good for you," she said finally. "Don't mess this up."

"I'm not planning on it, honestly."

"Well, but you never plan to mess things up, do you? It just happens."

"Catherine-"

She silenced him by hugging him, quickly and rather unexpectedly. He couldn't remember the last time she'd hugged him, and he was startled by the movement that he barely had time to react before she pulled away.

"It was good to see you, Dad. Take care of yourself."

He opened the door, watched her walk away from him feeling lighter than he had in years.

"And you. I love you, Catherine."

She stopped midstride, and turned around to smile at him. "I love you, too, you insufferable old man."

Harry chuckled, and waited until she was in her car and safely on her way before he closed the door.

* * *

Back inside the cottage Ruth was curled up on the couch with Fidget on her lap, her nose buried in a book. He took a moment to simply drink her in, this lovely woman who had so completely shaken his world. How strange it was, that one chance meeting could alter the course of a man's life so irreversibly. The man he'd been when he first came to this village was no more than fading memory, his anger and his repression replaced by a simple, boundless love and a zest for life he thought he'd lost.

"You owe me for that," she said with a hint of a smile, not looking up from her book.

Harry chuckled and made his way to her, sitting beside her and sliding his arm around her shoulders. She snuggled up close to him, and for quite some time they did not move, content to be together in this all too rare moment of peace and quiet. Only a few days ago she'd told him she couldn't see him any more, but he'd woken in her bed and introduced her to his daughter and now he was sitting on her sofa; he couldn't remember the last time he'd been quite this happy, and he was determined to enjoy every second of it. She read her book, and he breathed her in, and Fidget purred happily, and the minutes ticked by unheeded until for the second time that morning they were disturbed by a knock at the door.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Harry groaned, but Ruth just laughed and patted his leg affectionately.

"I'll take care of it, don't worry," she told him, depositing both her book and her cat on his lap for safekeeping. Fidget set about kneading his leg with enthusiasm, and Harry winced.

It was only a moment before Ruth returned, with a worried look on her face and an irate Ros in tow.

"We've got a problem," Ros said shortly.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Just as a warning, this chapter gets a bit dark. Things are coming to a head, and trouble is brewing.**

* * *

If Ros thought it odd that Harry should be sitting on Ruth's couch at this time on a Sunday morning, looking rather comfortable with his shoes off and her cat curled up in his lap, she mercifully elected not to comment. Her face was drawn and rather grave, and Harry liked the look of her not one bit. He'd only just come to a place of understanding with Ruth, had only just begun to see a ray of hope for their future together, had only just introduced her to his daughter and begun to imagine everything they could be together, and now here came Ros, looking like the angel of death. Whatever she had to say, he desperately did not want to hear it, but he had to know.

"Adam found out who's been reporting to George," Ros said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Ruth lingered in the doorway behind her, looking anxious and scared; Harry wished she would come to him, sit beside him and let him wrap his arm around her, let him shield her from this hurt, but she would not. Perhaps it was easier for her to be openly affectionate around him in front of Catherine, because she had no history with the girl, did not worry what she might think; Ros was one of her oldest friends (if they could truly be called friends), and evidently another matter all together.

"Who?" Harry croaked, dreading the answer.

"Oliver Mace."

Ruth sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes going wide in fear. The name meant nothing to Harry, but judging by the look on Ruth's face, this Mace character was bad news. Ros took pity on him, sensing his confusion, and explained.

"He used to be a big name in the village. Sat on the village council, owned a popular bar."

"What happened?"

Ros shot Ruth a calculating sort of look before she responded. From where he sat, Harry could only just see Ruth give the slightest inclination of her head, the barest nod of assent. Odd, that, Ros looking to Ruth for permission to do or say anything at all.

"Ruth here was instrumental in uncovering some of Oliver's…shadier business practices. It turns out that in addition to accepting bribes as a council member, he was employing illegal immigrants to work in his establishment, and on top of that, there was some evidence of mistreatment. Allegations of abuse and even violence. He was practically run out of town on a rail, after that."

Harry's head was spinning as he tried to take it all in, but Ros continued relentlessly.

"Of course, he was a very powerful man, and rather wealthy to boot. He used to own almost every square inch of the village, and he sold his assets to pay for a big shot London solicitor. George had gone into business with him after the divorce, you see, and the solicitor claimed that Ruth was not a reliable witness, that she was just trying to get one over on her ex-husband. The charges were dropped. After the trial, Mace took a step back from public life, but he's still here, still as slimy as ever, and still trying to hurt Ruth anyway he can."

"How do we know he's the one talking to George?" Harry demanded. His copper's instincts were taking over as his personal concern for Ruth faded and his desire for justice came to the foreground. Before they could act, they needed information, and so he rose from his seat on the sofa, leaving a startled Fidget whining at him in consternation. Harry began to pace, running through their options in his mind.

"The usual way. Adam was at the pub with the lads last night, and overheard Mace saying some rather unkind things about our Ruth. Apparently he saw the pair of you drive off, yesterday morning, and was remarking on what you could be up to that would keep you both out of the village for a whole day. Someone mentioned seeing you arriving at Ruth's house last night, and going inside, together, at which point Mace went outside to make a phone call. Adam had to be careful, so he missed part of the conversation, but it was clear that Mace was calling George. He mentioned something about putting a plan into action."

Ros had said more to him in the last five minutes that she had during all the weeks he'd lived in the village so far combined. Her words came out more like a police report than a conversation, for which Harry was thankful. Now was the time to be objective, rather than emotional, and he was glad he'd chosen this calm, calculating woman as a co-conspirator. She was clearly angry, but she wasn't rash, and he knew he could count on her to help him moving forward.

"You don't think he told George that Harry spent the night here, do you?" Ruth asked in a terrified little voice.

"Oh, I think we can bet on it," Ros answered grimly.

That was a problem, indeed. If George had been furious at the thought of them simply speaking to one another, angry enough to strike her face and wreck her shop, what would he do when he discovered they'd slept together?

"There's something else, isn't there?" After years of watching and interrogating people from every walk of life, Harry had learned a thing or two about reading people and it was clear to him from the way Ros was standing and the light shining in her eyes that there was more to the story. As he spoke, Harry kept his voice low and soft, not wanting to let any of his own fear or anger rise to the surface. Ruth was looking at him in horror, where just a few minutes ago she'd been happily tucked against his side, and he could almost feel the wheels turning in her mind, could almost see her deciding that she could never risk seeing him again. Losing her, so soon after finding his way back to her, was an unbearable thought, but he could not let this go. His suspicions were proved correct when Ros answered him.

"We have reason to believe that Mace has access to illegal firearms."

At those words, Ruth buried her face in her hands and collapsed into a nearby armchair, finally beaten down by the deluge of trouble Ros had brought to her door.

"What reason?" Harry prodded. If they could prove that allegation, perhaps they stood a chance of ending whatever plan Mace had concocted before it began.

"I may have taken the liberty of picking Mr. Mace's locks while Adam kept him busy at the pub," Ros told him without the slightest trace of embarrassment.

Harry sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. That helped them not at all; an illegal search of his home by a vigilante policewoman with no probable cause, no warrant, and a history of enmity with the suspect would get them all landed in jail before it would bring Mace down. The question became how to prove it, and how to stop him using any of those weapons, or passing them off to his friend before the shit really hit the fan.

"You think there's a chance-"

"I think there's every chance that Mace wants Ruth dead, and that he will see George as a means to an end. They were business partners, not friends, and George has always been violent and unpredictable. Mace would feel justified, in getting Ruth out of the way, and without her here to lay any accusations against him, he can start rebuilding his base of power in the village. If George is caught and sent to prison, then that's one less witness for Mace to worry about. It all fits."

Dimly Harry recalled his conversation with Tom earlier that morning, about a missing prostitute with connections to George, and he had to wonder, was this the sort of man who could murder a woman? Murder his own wife? Would knowing that she was sleeping with another man be enough to send him over the edge? In his heart, Harry heard a little voice whisper, _yes. And you've put her in danger, just by loving her._

"How do you want to play this, Harry? I mean, you're in charge here."

For the first time in quite a while, Ruth found her voice.

"What do you mean, he's in charge? Ros, he's retired for God's sake. This has nothing to do with him."

Ros scoffed. "He's the one who called us all in, put us all to investigating George in the first place. I don't think we counted on things moving so quickly, but now that they are, we need a game plan. Malcolm's working on finding that missing girl and your old friend Tom is keeping an eye on George in London, but I think it's Mace we need to be concerned with."

Ruth rose from her chair, hands shaking slightly as she turned to face Harry. There was an expression of such cold fury on her face that it quite took him by surprise, and he involuntarily stepped back, afraid she might completely explode at any moment.

"Ros, please go wait outside for Harry. I need to speak to him for a moment, alone," Ruth said quietly. Ros shrugged her shoulders and did as she was told; perhaps her copper's instincts had alerted her to the potential for imminent disaster in the air, and being the sort of person who quite detested emotional displays of any sort, she had decided it would be better for her to be out of the way. Whatever her motivations, Harry was sorry to see her go; he could have used some back up.

When the door closed behind Ros, Ruth turned to him and spoke in a deadly quite voice. "You've brought Malcolm into this?"

"Ruth-"

"Malcolm? Who else, Harry? Have you got all of my friends poking around behind my back? Are they going to be following me everywhere I go, watching over my shoulder? You lied to me this morning, didn't you? That phone call from Tom wasn't about an old case, it was about _this_ , and you lied to me. You lied to me, and then you-"

"Ruth, please let me explain," he interrupted desperately. Ruth was working herself up into quite a state, and he needed her to calm down, needed her to listen. Couldn't she see he was only trying to protect her? She meant so much to him, meant everything to him, and he couldn't bear to see anything bad happen to her, when he could so easily put a stop to it. He had to make her see reason.

"I told you I didn't want a fuss, I told you I didn't want to see you again, I told you to keep out of it, and not only did you ignore me, you lied to me." She pronounced each of those last four words very clearly, the sound of them reminding him of nothing so much as nails in a coffin.

"Ruth-"

"Get out of my house, Harry."

The final blow hit him like a punch to the gut. He was being summarily dismissed, forced to pay the price for his indiscretion. What could he possibly say to her? The loveliest woman he had ever known was standing across from him with tears in her eyes, looking at him like he was filth, like he was a traitor, like he'd hurt her terribly, and he could see no way to fix it. He hung his head, and shuffled to the door to collect his shoes.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, his hand on the doorknob, "I love you, Ruth. I only want to keep you safe." As he spoke he kept his back turned towards her, unable to bear the weight of her accusing stare, unable to face the pain he had caused her.

"Get out," she said in a voice choked with tears. Without another word, Harry departed.

* * *

Ros was waiting for him on the front walk, arms crossed again as her foot tapped out an impatient rhythm.

"Harry-"

"Talk to Tom about this missing girl. I need to change my clothes, and then I'm going to have a few words with Adam." Harry spoke in clipped tones, the old detective issuing orders. For a moment he thought Ros would stop him, would ask after Ruth, but she appeared to think better of it. In the end she simply nodded, and stalked off to her car.

Last night he'd finally found everything he ever wanted, wrapped up in Ruth's arms. This morning he'd lost it all forever. How quickly a man's life can change, he mused bitterly as he walked back to his cottage. Perhaps love was beyond his grasp, but vengeance was an old friend to him, and he would do whatever it took to see Ruth's enemies brought low. He would do whatever was needed to keep her safe, and then he would leave this place the way he'd always meant to, never to see her again.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: Ok, so things are still a bit dark this chapter. It wouldn't be Spooks without a little danger and a little angst, would it? We probably only have four or five chapters left to go. Many thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed.**

* * *

Harry showered, and shaved, and donned a fresh shirt and clean trousers, and all the while he struggled to force thoughts of Ruth from his mind. Thoughts of the smoothness of her skin, the taste of her, the siren song of her wet heat calling him to her, the look on her face and the brokenness of her voice as she begged him to leave. Too much had happened between them, in the last twenty-four hours, and he was left a jumbled mess, confused and sorrowful, choking on the taste of bitter disappointment.

 _You knew better,_ he told himself firmly as he locked his front door and set off to find Adam. _You knew no good would come from this, and yet you pursued her still._

He had been almost unable to stop himself, unable to deny himself the pleasure of her company, the warmth of her smile, unable to quell the hope she inspired him. It was unfair to her, this woman who had suffered so much, who longed only for a simple life, unfair to demand that she give him her all, that she place her trust in him, only to have it betrayed once more. He'd believed that he was doing the right thing, protecting her, and he believed it still, only now he was forced to admit to himself that the price of justice was high. It had cost him his family, and now it had cost him Ruth as well, but he knew no other way.

It was nearing noon when Harry arrived at Adam's house, and found the man in question in his front garden, playing a raucous game of football with Wes while Fiona cheered them on from her seat in the shade. For a moment Harry simply watched, feeling a pang of jealousy as he saw how easy this was for Adam, how uncomplicated. Here was a man who had a beautiful wife who loved him, a son who adored him, a lovely little home and more friends than could be counted. Had Adam ever been forced to choose as Harry had? To choose between love and duty, family and career? Or was the truth simply that some men were not meant to be happy, were not meant to have the joy of a simple life?

Harry sighed heavily, and announced his presence.

"Good morning," he called, watching the football fly right past Adam as he turned to identify the source of the shout, causing Wes to run about the garden, his little hands thrust up in the air victoriously as he crowed "Goal! I scored, Dad, I scored! Mummy, did you see?"

Fiona called the boy over to her, dragging him into her lap and speaking to him too softly for Harry to hear, her dark eyes watchful and faintly accusing as she gazed at him across the garden.

"Good morning, Harry," Adam said pleasantly, sweaty and slightly out of breath. He collected the ball, kicking it in Wes's general direction before walking over the grass to stand beside Harry on the pavement.

"I've just had a visit from Ros," Harry said in a low voice, mindful of suspicious wives and neighbors alike. He deliberately did not say _we've had a visit from Ros,_ not wanting to explain to Adam where he'd been earlier in the day, or how he had come to be there. Perhaps Ros had already rung her colleague and explained the situation, but Harry keenly felt the need to keep what had between Ruth and himself the night before private, for as long as he could.

"This is bad, Harry," Adam said, in what was, for him, an unnaturally serious tone. "Mace is trouble, he always has been. He's known Ruth since she was a girl, and has always taken an… unhealthy interest in her."

Harry ground his teeth in frustration. He'd never met this Mace character before, but the more he heard, the more he came to believe that he would take great satisfaction in knocking out a few of the bastard's teeth.

"Malcolm and Colin have been working through the night, trying to find something on this missing girl, but it's the guns that worry me. He could have more we don't know about, he could have already given one to George-"

"We need to keep eyes on Ruth," Harry interrupted. "We can't risk bringing Mace or George in now, our evidence is too tenuous. If either of them make a move against her, we need to be ready."

Adam sighed. "We don't really have the manpower for that, Harry. Besides Ros and me, there's only three other police officers in this whole village, and we don't know who Mace has bought and paid for. We can't ask for backup from any of the city coppers, we don't have any proof and we'll just alert Mace to what we're doing. We need Malcolm and Colin on the computers, and we need your friend Tom to keep an eye on George."

"Then we think outside the box. I'm already in place at the cottage, I can look out for trouble there without arousing suspicion. Sam, Zoe, Jo, they all see Ruth throughout the day. They don't need to be trained, they just need to be observant."

Adam gave him a calculating sort of look. "You want to expand the circle, bring more people into this? That's risky, Harry. Those girls are all young, and they all like to talk."

Harry bristled. He didn't appreciate having his orders questioned, and there was no doubt that he was giving orders now. He might have retired, but he'd started this little operation, and he was damn well going to lead it through to its conclusion.

"They're also all fiercely loyal to Ruth. Give them a chance, and I think they might surprise you."

He was well aware how ridiculous he sounded, telling Adam to trust these people when Adam had known them for years, and Harry had only been in the village for a few months. Decades of working as a detective had taught him how to take the measure of a person, however, and he had the benefit of not remembering Sam or Zoe or Jo as misbehaving teenagers; he could judge them based on who they were now, not who they had been in the past, and he believed he could trust them. All three of them cared deeply for Ruth, all three of them recognized that she was the beating heart at the center of the village, and he believed that together they would make a fine little spy network.

"Fine, so we set her friends to watching her, and you keep an eye on her cottage. Then what? Do we just wait for George or Mace to come after her? Are you really talking about using Ruth as bait, Harry?"

Harry felt his heart plummet. That was essentially the crux of his plan; put a network of spies (and potential witnesses) in place and wait for some sort of damning move from one of their suspects, but he'd never quite realized how calculating, how callous it was. Ruth was in danger, and he wasn't about to do anything to alleviate that risk. If anything, his plan only increased the possibility that one or both of these men might snap, and do something unconscionable.

"Can you think of any other way?" he asked in a deadly quiet voice. He genuinely wanted to know. If there was any alternative, he would take it happily, but the way things stood there seemed to be only one course of action.

"I don't like it," Adam answered, but his tone indicated that he knew there was no alternative.

"Neither do I," Harry answered grimly.

* * *

The rest of the day passed unbearably slowly. He puttered around the back garden, unable to really put his heart into his work as he worried and fretted and chastised himself. He'd called Sam and Zoe and Jo, and all three had readily agreed to be his eyes and ears in the village. Sam had even volunteered to go round to Ruth's for tea that afternoon, as she sometimes did on Sundays, hell bent on keeping her friend company, no matter how adverse Ruth might be to the idea. The Scottish girl had an infectious enthusiasm, and Harry was grateful to know that Ruth would not be alone with her grief and her anger.

As he wandered around his garden, he wondered about Ruth, and how she was faring; did she feel as brokenhearted as he did, at the ending of their relationship? Was she mourning as he was for the loss of what could have been? He'd opened his mouth, told her he loved her before he had a chance to think better of it; had his words had any impact on her, other than to cause her more pain?

The declaration hadn't been intended as a jibe, but rather as a plea, a last ditch attempt to explain himself and the actions he'd taken. No doubt Ruth had felt differently, he realized as he set off on foot in the gathering dusk and made his way toward the pub for his supper. How many times, he wondered, had George struck her face and then contritely declared his love for her? Had Harry's words felt the same to her, felt more like a manipulation than a confession?

He realized now what a mistake it had been, to say those three words to her when he did, to burden her still further with the weight of his heart. It was too soon, too soon after falling into her bed, too soon after breaking her confidence, too soon after threatening the stability of her simple life, and it might very well have been the absolute ruination of any plans he might have held for reconciliation.

It was with a grim and bitter heart that Harry entered the pub, ordering his usual meal and tall lager, ensconced in the privacy of his favorite booth. From here he had a clear view of the room, as well as a direct line of sight to the door, and could watch the comings and goings of his fellow villagers, observe their light hearted banter as a ghost, stuck behind a veil, unable to participate in the activity of their lives. This had always been his purview, the watcher on the wall, always protecting, never included.

He had finished his food and was lingering over his half-empty glass, staring out blindly at the room for quite some time before his brain finally registered what it was he was seeing.

There was a man sitting at the bar, a tall, balding man with small, beady eyes and a smug expression on his face, a man who kept glancing his way and smirking slightly. The other patrons were going out of their way to avoid him, and even the barkeep was paying him only the most grudging attention, only approaching him when the man snapped his fingers haughtily and demanded service. He seemed to carry an invisible barrier around him, a wall of isolation and odious contempt that no one wanted to break through, and though Harry couldn't have said how or why, he became certain in that moment that he was looking at Oliver Mace.

Harry clasped his hands tightly together on the tabletop, his jaw clenched as he tried to contain the fury that welled up inside him. George was one thing, a run of the mill wife-beater who could no doubt be put in his place with relative ease, but Mace was something else entirely. Wealthy, well-connected, powerful, Mace had already managed to slip out of serious trouble with the police once before, and would likely be able to manage it again. All of Harry's anger, all of his fear, all of his grief became focused in that instant, narrowed down and placed firmly on this man. With one swallow he downed the rest of his lager, rose from his booth, and with a firm and steady stride beat a path across the pub towards Mace. The man saw him coming, and rose to meet him.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," Mace said, his voice as slimy as the rest of him. "Oliver Mace." He extended a hand, but Harry did not take it, balling his hands in his fists at his side. Dimly, he was aware that he likely resembled nothing so much as a gorilla in that moment, his shoulders bent forward slightly and his brow furrowed as he only barely restrained himself from punching Mace in the gut.

Seeing that Harry wasn't about to shake his hand, Mace smoothly withdrew the offer, leaning back against the bar slightly and looking for all the world as if he owned the place, and everyone in it.

"I've heard quite a bit about you, of course," Mace continued. "Everyone's talking about you, and our Ruth."

"Don't you speak her name," Harry all but growled. He'd intended to be cool and calm, but he was bubbling over with rage, a powder keg waiting to explode. This could spell the end of his carefully laid plans, but in that moment he didn't care, couldn't care about anything other than hurting this man who threatened everything Harry held dear.

Mace laughed. "Come now, there's no need for theatrics. It's not as if you're the only man to sample the…delights this village has to offer."

That was it. The nasty insinuation in his voice, the look of arrogant disdain on his face, the obvious threat he exuded, all together it was too much for Harry to bear. With a roar, he charged, catching Mace off guard as he slammed his fist into the man's face. Mace fell back against the bar, dazed and bleeding, and Harry followed the first punch with a second, then a third, heavy, immobilizing blows delivered to his stomach, his face, any part of him he could reach. Harry saw red, nothing but a haze; during his time in the Army he'd been a boxer, and all his training took over as he shifted his weight and struck again and again and again.

Eventually the other people in the bar recovered from their shock and pulled Harry away, strong arms locking around him and lifting him bodily from the floor, pulling him back towards the entrance of the pub. Out on the street the sound of sirens from a police car echoed, growing louder and louder until they drowned out the shouts from inside the pub. The barkeep was furious, bellowing "Get him out of here!" while Mace heaved himself up, his nose clearly broken, clutching his chest gingerly.

"Oh, Harry," Mace wheezed, still managing to look triumphant despite the devastation Harry had wrought. "You're going to regret this, my friend."

Harry was dragged from the pub before he could respond, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting in the back of Ros's police cruiser, his hands cuffed together and his head hung in shame.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Ros hissed as she drove away.

He hung his head in shame, unable to come up with a single excuse for what he'd done. It had been foolish in the extreme, rising to the bait like that. He stared down at his hands in glum contrition, and realized with a start that his knuckles were cracked and bleeding.

"I've got to take you in, Harry," Ros continued in a venomous voice. "You were supposed to keep a watch on Ruth tonight. How the hell are you going to manage that from inside the police station?"

 _Oh Christ, Ruth,_ he thought.


	25. Chapter 25

Harry spent a long and uncomfortable night in a small cell in the village police station, waiting to hear if he would be charged for what he'd done to Mace. There was very little doubt that he would soon find himself embroiled in legal proceedings; the pub had been full of witnesses, people who would state unequivocally that Harry had been the instigator, the first and only one to throw a punch, and that Mace had hardly even had a chance to defend himself. The damage done was obvious; Harry knew he'd broken Mace's nose, and his shirtfront was splattered with the odious man's blood. While he regretted losing his cool, and he fretted about Ruth alone in her cottage with no one to look after her, he nonetheless felt a grim sense of satisfaction at what he'd done.

While he sat, alone and exhausted, he distracted himself by planning his holiday, a trip he likely would not be able to take for quite some time. _Paris_ , he thought, _I'll start in Paris._ He mapped the route he would take in his head, thought of the landmarks he wanted to see, and tried not to ponder how much more he would enjoy the Louvre with Ruth for company. Pressing on from that, he thought _I'd quite like to see Normandy, as well. Stand on Sword Beach._ Harry had always been fond of military history, and had wiled away long hours reading about Operation Overlord. He'd always been quite moved by the courage of those men who faced hell to storm the beach in France, and for years he had considered making the trip to stand where they'd stood, and reflect on their sacrifice. It would be quite something, he thought, and as he considered the path he'd take, thoughts of Ruth faded. He wasn't sure she would enjoy that quite as much as the Louvre.

Eventually morning came, and brought with it Ros Myers, and a hot cup of coffee.

"You look terrible," she said, not sounding sympathetic at all as she opened the door to his cell and marched inside, sitting beside him on the rough little bench where he'd spent the night. There was no cot in the cell; apparently, the village jail didn't see many overnight guests, or if it did, those persons were usually afforded lodging in a different room. Harry had no illusions about Ros's current feelings towards him, and it wasn't difficult to imagine that she had deliberately denied him a bed for the evening as retribution for his rash actions.

He accepted the coffee gratefully, and did not rise to her obvious taunt. He very much wanted to ask after Ruth, but he supposed if there was any news on that front Ros would get around to telling him all about it, in time. It wouldn't do, to demand anything from her when she held the keys to his cell and he had made such a cock-up of everything.

They sat together in silence for a few long minutes, Harry sipping his coffee and rolling his shoulders, trying to work out some of the tension he'd carried since Ros had driven him here from the pub. Weariness made his joints and muscles ache; _I'm too old for this,_ he thought grimly.

"I've had a rather interesting night," Ros said finally, rising from the bench and stretching her back slightly. There was something vaguely feline about her and the way she moved, he thought, but Ros was no domesticated cat, like Ruth's sweet Fidget; she was more like a tiger, this fierce, prickly woman with her sharp eyes and her thin, judgmental mouth. Ros carried herself with an air that seemed to imply she wouldn't hesitate to rip out a man's throat with her teeth. Harry liked that about her.

"Oh?" he asked, trying and failing to sound disinterested. His imagination was running away with him, conjuring images of Mace and George and Ruth and all the horrible things that could have happened while he was trapped here, unable to help Ruth, unable to save her, doing nothing at all except wasting him time dreaming of a trip to France.

"Colin and Malcolm managed to find the missing prostitute, the one George was seen threatening. Tom looked her up; she's alive and well, and wants nothing to do with George or with us. She insisted that nothing happened, and threatened to have us charged with harassment if we contact her again."

 _Oh, fantastic,_ Harry thought glumly. He was glad the girl was alive, of course; he could imagine how Ruth would blame herself, if the girl had died. It wouldn't have been her fault, never her fault, but still he knew she would carry the guilt, for not reporting George, for failing to protect another woman from his wrath. On the other hand, if Ruth would not bring charges against him, and they had no evidence of other crimes, George would remain a free man, and that rankled Harry.

"Mace wants you charged with ABH," Ros continued. "He gave quite the statement, and there's no denying his nose is broken, and at least one of his ribs as well, according to the doctor who examined him."

Those words should not have made Harry feel proud, but he couldn't help himself; a sense of smug satisfaction overcame him, knowing that he had hurt Mace so badly. He might have been well past fifty, but his daily walks into the village and his toiling in the garden had restored some of the muscle mass he'd lost, and he was glad to know that he could still hold his own in a fight. And glad to know that for the rest of his life, whenever Oliver Mace looked at his mangled nose in the mirror, he'd have a permanent reminder of Harry Pearce and the consequences of crossing such a man.

"It's interesting, though, we can't find one single person willing to testify against you."

Harry looked up sharply at those words. The pub had been full of people, two dozen at the least, and he could still hear Lucas – the barkeep – shouting furiously _get him out of here;_ there were plenty of witnesses to Harry's momentary lapse in judgment. Why wouldn't they speak against him?

"Adam stayed behind, after I brought you back here, but every single person in that pub took off before he could take a statement, and Lucas insists that he was nowhere near the bar, when the fighting started. He says he never saw a thing."

They were protecting him, Harry realized, and that notion left him completely flabbergasted. What had he done, to inspire such loyalty?

 _Don't be daft,_ he told himself sternly, _they're not doing it for you. They're doing it for Ruth, and to get one over on Mace._

"Where does that leave us, then?" Harry asked carefully.

"Well, if that was all the news I had to bring you, I'd be here to tell you that you could post bail, and be on your way."

Ros had a certain gleam in her eye, like a child about to reveal some long-hidden secret. She was driving Harry quite mad, to be honest; he needed to know what had happened out there, while he was climbing the walls in his little cell. He needed to know if Ruth was all right, needed to know what would happen to him, now that the entire village was on his side.

"Ros," he said crossly, "Could you just-"

"George came round to Ruth's last night," Ros interrupted him. As she spoke she began to pace the length of Harry's cell, her hands shoved in her pockets.

Those words hit Harry hard, and he felt his heart sink in his chest. No doubt after the brawl in the pub Mace had contacted George at the first opportunity, and told him to strike now, tonight, while Harry was out of the way. Harry had done this to her, had brought this horror down on her, by not keeping his distance, by losing his temper with Mace, by simply being himself.

"He was out in the street, waving a gun around and shouting. Luckily, though, Sam and Danny had decided to take a little midnight stroll down your lane. Funny, that. Sam's flat is on the other side of the village."

Harry looked up sharply. When he'd asked Sam and Zoe and Jo to keep an eye on Ruth, he had asked them not to go anywhere or do anything out of the ordinary, in an effort to keep from arousing Ruth's suspicion. From the look on Ros's face he gathered that Sam had decided to ignore that particular directive, and taken it upon herself to patrol the lane in front of Ruth's cottage. He was fiercely proud of the girl in that moment; her initiative might well have saved Ruth's life, and he was grateful to her for it.

"Adam went over to Ruth's, since he was getting nowhere at the pub, and brought George back here. George has been sitting in a cell down the hall, talking all night."

"And what's he been saying?" Harry couldn't help himself; he needed answers. He hated this feeling of helplessness, hated knowing that he had been unable to defend Ruth because of his own mule-stubborn nature. And he resented Ros, just a little, for taking so much pleasure in drawing out her explanation, and by extension, prolonging his discomfort.

"Oh, the usual. He loves her, he can't live without her, he can't stomach the thought of another man in her bed, he got the gun from Oliver Mace-"

"What?" Harry bolted to his feet and immediately regretted it as his knee twinged something awful. He'd been sitting in the same position on that hard bench for far too long, and his joints protested the sudden movement.

"Oh, yes," Ros said gleefully. "Of course, we had to go to Mace's home straight away. Only this time, we had a warrant. Adam is still there, cataloguing all sorts of interesting, illegal items in Mace's possession."

Harry's head was spinning; it was almost too much information to process all at once, and so far Ros hadn't touched on the one thing he most wanted to know.

"Ruth is fine," Ros said quickly, no doubt measuring his concern by the look on his face. "George never came anywhere near her. Sam and Danny are willing to act as witnesses against him, so we're bringing charges of assault, and we'll throw in possession of an illegal firearm and his little tantrum at the shop, as well. He won't be bothering Ruth again any time soon. Mace will be charged with possession and distribution of illegal firearms at the very least; if we get our way, he could be looking at ten years in prison. And no charges for you, Harry, you lucky bastard."

Harry sat back down on the bench heavily; he didn't trust his legs to hold him, after that deluge of information. It looked like he would be getting everything he wanted; Mace and George would face the consequences for their actions, Ruth was safe, and he was under no immediate threat of imprisonment. _What a difference twelve hours can make_ , he thought.

"You have had a busy night," he said dryly, running his hands over his face, feeling the prickle of stubble beneath his fingertips. _I don't want to date a grizzly bear;_ he heard Ruth's gentle, teasing voice echoing unbidden through his mind, and sorrow threatened to drown his relief. Ruth was safe, but she wanted nothing more to do with him. _Was it worth it?_ He asked himself. The answer was, unequivocally, _yes._ Yes, let Ruth be cross with him, let her hate him, let her never speak to him again for the rest of his life, but let her live in peace and security. The reward was worth the loss, in this case.

"That's an understatement," Ros said, trying to stifle a yawn. "I've got a mountain of paperwork to dig through. Jo will be cross with me, we were supposed to have breakfast together this morning."

Things would return to normal after this, he realized. Adam would have Fiona, Ros would have Jo, Tom would have his money (and likely never speak to Harry again), and Harry would be once more entirely alone.

"Am I free to go, then?" he asked. He knew his voice betrayed just how glum he felt at the prospect of returning to his empty cottage and a life without Ruth, but he couldn't bring himself to disguise the hurt that overwhelmed him. Ros was looking at him strangely; it wasn't quite pity, in her expression, but it was perhaps as close to pity as she ever got, and he resented it.

"You are," she said, taking a step back.

He rose on creaking knees, and reached out to shake her hand. "Thank you, Ros," he said earnestly, "for everything."

"I should be thanking you," she answered, giving him an extra little squeeze before releasing her grip. "I'm not sure we would have got this far, if it hadn't been for you."

Harry attempted a smile, and walked away with his hands shoved in his pockets. He needed a shower, and a nap, and then he needed to call Zoe. He wondered if her friend Zaf was still looking for a place to live; before he could start his holiday, he would need to find a tenant. Once that was settled, though, he fully intended to be on his way, and the sooner he put this village behind him, the better.

Ros watched him go, her lips pursed in thought and her arms crossed tightly over her chest.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Here we go, folks! This is the penultimate chapter (I think), with only an epilogue to follow. Thank you for taking this journey with me, and for all your kind words along the way.**

* * *

It was a long walk back from the police station to Harry's little cottage, and as he trudged along, exhausted and utterly drained, he paid no attention to the bustling of the village around him. Today was Monday, he realized; everyone was on their way to work or rushing about on errands, with Harry trapped in their midst, invisible and inconsequential. For a time Harry had harbored the notion that this village could be his home, that these people could be his friends, that this quiet life could suit him, but now he feared that there was no place for him here. Trouble seemed to haunt his steps, no matter how far afield he travelled, and he did not wish to bring more ruination down on these gracious people and their tranquil lives. Better to leave now, and spare them all the heartache his presence would surely cause.

His feet carried him down Center Street, past the café where Zoe stood behind the counter, watching him through the windows with concern etched on her face. Harry did not stop in to chat; he was in no mood to discuss the tumultuous events of the night before. A few doors down from the café the lights inside Something Wonderful were off and its door still locked, with no sign of its lovely proprietress and her warm, welcoming smile. Apparently Ruth hadn't quite managed to make it into work this morning, and Harry couldn't exactly blame her. She deserved a bit of a break, some time to heal and rest after everything that had happened over the last few days. He wondered if she felt as empty as he did, facing the prospect of a future apart with all their hopes for one another in tatters. _No, probably not_ , he thought; Ruth probably thought she was better off without him, and he couldn't help but agree.

Eventually he made it back to his cottage, and stumbled inside without sparing a glance at Ruth's cottage, without taking even a moment to ponder what she might be doing in there just now. He was too tired to think, too tired to regret, too tired even to take off his shoes before he collapsed on the sofa in his sitting room, and let sleep claim him.

* * *

When Harry woke, he was shocked to find that night had fallen outside his cottage windows. He'd only intended to take a short nap, but apparently his body had other plans; a quick glance at his mobile showed the time to be well past nine in the evening. As he rose and stretched, attempting to ease the tension in his muscles from spending the day curled on his sofa, his stomach gave fearful growl. He shuffled into the kitchen in search of sustenance, rummaging through the cabinets and scratching at the stubble on his face.

 _Perhaps I'll just let it go,_ he mused as he set about making himself a sandwich. Harry had never had a beard before; he'd joined the Army straight out of University, and left the Army to become a policeman. In both positions facial hair of any sort was frowned upon, and besides, Jane had always liked him clean-shaven. Apparently Ruth did as well, but he reminded himself with a heavy heart that after this weekend, Ruth was no longer a part of his life, and what she did or did not like was a moot point.

He sat at the kitchen table with his sandwich and a glass of water, mulling over his options, opening his little laptop and pulling up a map to plot out his holiday. France first, he decided; Normandy, and then on to Paris. After Paris, he'd make his way to Zurich, and spend a few days wandering the city streets. From Zurich he'd go to Munich, and lose himself in the Hofbräuhaus, drinking entirely too much beer and eating entirely too much Weißwurst and pretzels- or should he wait, and not visit Munich until the fall, when he could enjoy all the festivities of Oktoberfest? He shelved that idea for a moment, and travelled on along the digital map. Berlin, yes, he'd quite like to go to Berlin, visit the museums, wander along the path of the fallen wall. Maybe he'd buy one of those kitschy little trinkets that claimed to be a piece of the wall itself, like the false Christian relics sold by Medieval charlatans, and give it to his daughter upon his return. Fake or not, Catherine would surely enjoy such a gift.

 _Right then,_ he thought. Paris, then Zurich, then up to Berlin, then maybe a stop in Prague before heading down to Munich by October. From Munich he could go east to Budapest, or west to Venice. Whichever he decided, he'd end his trip in Italy, meandering up and down the country until he was ready to come back to England, or to set up house somewhere else entirely.

It was quite a trip he'd planned out for himself, and would take months to complete. He rather liked that idea, liked the notion of walking away from his life and fading into a sea of tourists. A call to a travel agent might be in order, to make all the arrangements, but he supposed he could have the whole thing settled in a matter of days. And then he would be gone, and no turning back.

Harry had completely lost himself in his plans, and so did not immediately hear the gentle knock on his front door. Eventually though he registered the sound, and dragged himself to his feet with a groan. He must look a fright, he knew; still wearing the same wrinkled shirt and trousers from Sunday night, terribly mussed after spending a night behind bars and another full day comatose on the sofa. His hair was unkempt, his face was half-hidden behind stubble, and his steps were heavy and uneven as his knee troubled him still. He had half a mind to tell whoever was disturbing him to bugger off and leave him be, but as he opened the door, the words died on his lips.

It was Ruth, standing there on his front step, wringing her hands in front of her and looking as troubled as she was lovely. Her soft hair was pulled back, highlighting the gentle lines of her face and the delicate curve of her slender neck. Her collarbones peeked at him above her soft gray dress, her ever-present necklace sparkling against her skin. Her luminous eyes were sad and pleading, and Harry found he could not look away from them.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Harry could not find the words; part of him desperately wanted her to leave, now, before she delivered the final blow, before she told him again that she did not want him in her life. Another part of him wanted her to stay, wanted to grab her by the hand and drag her into his home, wanted to press her up against the wall and kiss her until she agreed to stay. For her part, Ruth seemed just as torn. She was watching his face, taking in his shabby appearance, shifting back and forth on her feet, now leaning towards him, now pulling away, her obvious doubts playing across her gorgeous face.

"Harry," she said finally, her voice soft and broken.

"Ruth," he answered, his throat too tight to allow more than that single word to pass his lips. For a moment he hesitated, unsure of what to do next, but common courtesy won out over the protestations of his shattered heart, and so he opened the door a bit wider in a silent invitation. Ruth accepted, ducking her head and dropping her gaze to the floor as she stepped over the threshold, and he closed the door behind her.

They stood together rather awkwardly in his foyer, tension mounting between them with every passing second as the walls seemed to close in on them and they both struggled to come up with something, anything to say to break the silence. When he found that the words still would not come, Harry chose not to speak at all. Instead he simply turned and walked off towards the kitchen, and she fell into step behind him.

Once they reached their destination Harry did not ask Ruth what she wanted; she sat down at his kitchen table, and he poured her a glass of wine. When he turned, he found that she had discovered the map still open on his laptop, and he watched her for a moment, taking in the sudden look of fear that colored her features as her eyes roved over the map.

"Are you going somewhere?" she asked as he handed her the wine and took a seat across from her.

"I had always planned to take a big trip, after I finished sorting out this cottage. Now that the work is finished, I think it's high time I left."

He did not miss her sharp intake of breath, did not miss the way she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, did not miss the way her eyes brightened beneath a sheen of unshed tears. Could it be that she was sad to see him go? He wondered. His heart was far too tired to even hope that such a thing could be true. They had tried their hand at romance, and they had failed, and there was nothing for him here.

"I don't know what I'll do without you, Harry," she said.

And wasn't that an odd thing to say, he thought. Unless it was true, unless he had come to mean as much to her as she meant to him, unless her heart was crying out for him, just as his was for her. But no, Ruth had made up her mind, had cast him out of her home, out of her life, and it would not do to hope for another chance. He simply could not bear it, if he should draw near to her again, only to be rejected once more.

"Oh, I think you'll manage," he answered, not unkindly. "You're stronger than you know."

She gave a dry, sad little laugh at that.

"I've always wanted to go to Rome," she mused, looking back to the map and severing their connection once again. "I've always wanted to see Bernini's works in person. Go to the Galleria Borghese, see the fountains, tour Saint Peter's. His sculptures are almost _alive,_ the movement is so real you can feel it in your bones." Her voice was soft and contemplative, even as she babbled on about Bernini, and he found himself once more completely under her spell. As much as he was looking forward to his holiday, Harry knew that it would be a cold and lonely walk, without her by his side, and he spoke without thinking.

"Come with me," he said.

She was clearly startled at his suggestion, jumping slightly and turning the full force of her glorious eyes on him.

"You can't possibly mean that," she said. "After everything-"

"Come with me," he repeated, reaching out to take hold of her hand. Her skin was soft and cold to the touch, so he wrapped her hand in his own, offering some of his warmth, offering her the last broken, shattered pieces of himself. She did not pull away, and he was glad of it. "Come with me, to Paris and Berlin and Rome. Walk beside me down the streets, share your passions with me. Teach me what you know. The world will be empty, without you in it. Come with me." _Stay with me, and don't ever leave,_ he added to himself.

It was so out of character for him, to make such a plea; Jane had often complained that she was never sure what he wanted, what he expected from their relationship. With Ruth though, he could not hold himself back. He wanted everything with her, wanted her by his side, in his bed, until the end of his days, and he could not stop himself from sharing this vision of the future with her, one final time.

Was she still angry with him? He wondered as he watched her struggle to keep her tears at bay, watched her struggle to find her voice. Harry had betrayed her, had lied to her, and even though everything he'd done had been to protect her, he knew she could not tie herself to a man she could not trust. There was one more thing he had to say, before she pulled away from him completely.

"I'm sorry, Ruth," he said earnestly, willing her to understand. "I should have told you what I was planning from the beginning, and I never should have hidden the truth from you. But I need you to understand that everything I did, I did to keep you safe. You deserve to be free to live your life without looking over your shoulder for George and Mace, and I can't say I'm sorry, for the part I played in getting rid of them. I'm only sorry that I hurt you in the process. That was never my intention."

She hadn't pulled away, he realized. She was still holding his hand, still sitting at his table, still looking at him; surely that was a good thing.

"I'm sorry, too," she said finally. "I'm sorry I tried to shut you out. Sometimes I think it's easier, if I just keep to myself, instead of getting close to people. Love hurts, Harry. It always does."

 _Love._

She'd never said that word to him before, not in this context. He'd made his declarations, first with the flowers and then on that terrible night when she'd cast him out of her home, but she had never even come close to echoing his confession. Until now. Was this an admission of sorts, her quiet way of saying that her feelings for him were as strong as his own for her?

"Maybe it does," he said carefully. "Maybe it hurts, sometimes. But I think it heals us, too."

Ruth began to cry in earnest, and Harry could bear the distance between them no longer. Still holding her hand he rose to his feet, and eased around the edge of the table, pulling her up and into his arms. She offered no resistance; instead she collapsed against him, burying her face in his chest and weeping while he ran a gentle hand up and down her back, offering her what little comfort he could while he held his breath. He felt them balanced on the edge of a knife, on the verge of falling together or falling apart, and he would not, could not know where they would land until she found it in herself to speak. So he waited, and held her, lost himself in the smell of her hair and the warmth of her body pressed so close to his own, as second after agonizing second ticked away.

Finally, her tears abated, and she leaned back slightly in his arms, just far enough for him to look into her eyes.

"Come with me," he said again.

"Yes," she answered.

 _Yes._

There was nothing else for him to do, in that moment, but bring his lips crashing down on hers, and she met him with equal fervor, lips and tongues devouring as their hearts knit back together and began to sing again the song of lovers, reunited.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: At long last, the epilogue. It's a bit short and a bit sappy, but I hope you won't mind.**

* * *

Ruth woke to the sights and sounds of Rome coming to life around her on a blissful November morning, the shades at the window drawn back to let in the light of the world beyond. They'd been too caught up in their haste to ride one another of their clothes last night to spare even a moment for something as mundane as drawing the curtains, but she didn't mind the light, now. Her body felt soft and warm blissfully at ease, wrapped in the cocoon of Harry's embrace. For all her life, Ruth had been most comfortable sleeping on her stomach, and she had woken to find Harry draped across her back, his breathing soft by her ear, the gentle warmth of his arm thrown over her body a reassuring weight for her to cling to, his legs tangling with her own beneath the sheets. She would need to rise soon, would need a shower and something to eat, but for now she was happy to lie beneath his body, safe and well.

They had been many months on the road, traveling all across Europe, and she had loved every moment of it. Sitting in cafés, eating breakfast in little pâtisseries and strolling along hand in hand, down broad boulevards and through the sacred quiet of many a museum. When they arrived in Rome, Harry had surprised her by mapping out a walking tour of the city in easy stages, so that she could see each of the city's glorious fountains, ending each day at the foot of a monumental work by Bernini.

And just last night, as they stood and stared at the splendor of the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, Ruth's eyes glistening with unshed tears at the sheer staggering beauty of it, Harry had wrapped one arm around her, drawn her close, and whispered, _marry me, Ruth._ All around them the Piazza Navona bustled with life, but everyone and everything else faded away, and all she could see in that moment was Harry, her Harry, a bit worn, a bit weathered, a bit battle-hardened, and every bit as lovely as the fountain that had previously captured her attention.

She had not hesitated, not even for a moment.

 _Yes,_ she told him quietly. _Always._

Harry had kissed her then, and pulled a diamond ring from his pocket, sliding it on her finger while she was too distracted by the warmth and wet of his mouth to notice. She'd pulled away from him then, to stare down in wonder at the little ring, sparkling delicately against her skin. It was an intricate piece, a white gold band with three little diamonds held in place by delicate scrollwork. She'd never seen anything like it, and she was simultaneously confused as to when he'd found the time to buy it, and enraptured by this man who knew her well enough to pick such a ring for her.

 _Do you like it?_ He'd asked in a slightly worried tone of voice.

 _I love it,_ she'd answered, stealing one last look at the ring before flinging her arms around his neck and pulling him back in for another kiss.

And now here they were, lying naked and tangled together in a hotel in Rome, and Ruth realized with a start that she'd never been this content in her entire life. Harry had re-arranged his original plan, so that they might end their trip in Rome, and they had a few days left here before they would return home. Ruth had left the shop in Sam's capable hands, and she entertained herself for a few moments, wondering what the Scottish girl would say upon discovering that Ruth and Harry were now engaged. She dearly hoped that her friends would be happy for them; it still frightened her, just a little, the vulnerability of having her affections so universally known, but she knew that Harry would be there for her, to protect her, to set her mind at ease.

There was much still to discuss. The question foremost in her mind was this: where would they live? She loved her cottage, but she loved Harry's more, loved knowing that he had poured all of his energy into bringing that little house back to life, every board and beam and every inch of garden having been lovingly restored by the tender touch of his broad, strong hands. It would be rather nice, she thought, to pack up her books and her cat and move across the lane, taking up residence in the cottage that had brought Harry crashing into her life in the first place.

She had to stifle a laugh at the memory of their first meeting, and Harry's bungled attempt at chivalry as he attempted to retrieve Fidget for her, and very nearly did himself serious injury in her front garden. Even then, knowing so little about the truth of him, she'd thought he was a dear man, and had warned herself to tread lightly around him. It hadn't worked, of course; no matter how Ruth had tried to wall herself away from him, Harry had won her over, his patient, somewhat awkward overtures of friendship only making her want to see him more and more, until even she could not deny the pull that existed between them. She had been so frightened, in the beginning, of the force of her reaction to him, terrified that she would once again lose herself to a man who wanted nothing more than to own her.

Harry had dispelled all her fears, however; he loved her as she was, and he had never once tried to force her to do or be anything she didn't want to. Being in his presence brought her a kind of peace the likes of which she'd never known, and she never again wanted to be separated from him.

Beside her Harry had begun to stir, the tips of his fingers brushing lightly against her skin, the shift in his breathing alerting her to his wakefulness. She turned her head, and found him looking at her, his eyes still glazed from sleep.

"Good morning," she whispered, and watched as a slow, satisfied smile overtook his features.

"Good morning, my love," he answered, leaning forward to brush a gentle kiss against her lips.

Yes, she was his love, as he was hers. In a few days' time they would return to the village, return to their home and to their friends. They would plan a wedding; Ruth rather liked the idea of getting married at the farm, and she thought Harry would agree. He would help her at the shop, and she would putter around the garden with him, and they would wake like this every morning, and fall into one another every night, and Ruth could think of nothing in this world that would make her happier than sharing each of those little moments with him, for all the rest of her days.


End file.
